


No One Knows Where the Night is Going

by LadyJanus



Series: Dance Me To The End Of Love [3]
Category: Sanctuary (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: Discovery, Star Trek: The Original Series, The Tomorrow People (1992)
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e02 Battle at the Binary Stars, F/F, Fix-It, Philippa Georgiou doesn't die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-07-06 19:17:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 79,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15892410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanus/pseuds/LadyJanus
Summary: Those who dance, begin to dance—those who weep, begin. Those who earnestly are lost, are lost and lost again …





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my words and a bit of plot. Star Trek: Discovery belongs to Gene Roddenberry’s estate and heirs, CBS, Paramount Studios and whoever else owns bits and pieces of the Star Trek franchise.
> 
> Spoilers: To “Battle of the Binary Stars” and, since this is a sequel my fix-it stories “Oh, Let Me See Your Beauty When the Witnesses Are Gone” and “I’m Guided by a Signal in the Heavens”, everything beyond that episode is definitely alternate universe, although the later episodes may inform on the story. The title is from the song “The Guests” by the incomparable Leonard Cohen.
> 
> I had hoped to start posting this story in June ... but a new job with a steep learning curve and life in general, meant little time for anything but keeping body and soul together. Then I gave myself by Labour Day to finish and start posting ... well, I'm about 100 pages and 45,000 words in, with no end in sight. But I figure, might as well start posting and see if that helps with getting the story finished. We'll see. LOL! 
> 
> It may take me quite a while to get there, but I'll get there in the end.
> 
> For nomisunrider, a HUGE thank you for your brilliant "Across the Stars" - it was a wonderful roller coaster ride to an amazing destination - and thank you for all your encouragement! 
> 
> And this is also for everyone who encouraged me through “Oh, Let Me See Your Beauty When the Witnesses Are Gone” and “I’m Guided by a Signal in the Heavens” through your kudos and wonderful comments. Thank you and I hope you enjoy it as much as those two stories!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will have a rather different structure from the other two, with a number of "Interludes" between the main chapters. Much of Michael's and Philippa's POV in this story will be told in those Interludes. There will also be a lot of flashbacks and digressions - please bear with me and I hope it doesn't get too confusing.
> 
> As well, you'll notice from the tags that Commodore Farzaneh Paris will feature heavily - this was largely unintentional at first, but she's a pushy old broad, so I ran with it! LOL! Therefore, the main story will told from her point of view and as she's ever evolving in my head cannon, we'll see how it all works out. Admiral Katrina Cornwell will also have a large role to play, so I hope you like where I go with her.
> 
> Finally, there will be some surprises, but I won't tag those until they come up in the story, because ... Spoilers darlings!

Awareness returns to Philippa Georgiou all at once. She floats in an ocean of black, her entire body rocked by waves of pain and darkness that calls her name.

 

_“Philippa …”_

 

 _“Philippa.”_ And then a quieter … more fearful, _“Please wake up … please don’t die … don’t you_ dare  _die and leave me all alone here …”_

 

“I’m all right, Michael,” Philippa mutters, and—as the pain recedes like the outgoing tide—wonders why she didn’t have the mother of all headaches. She feels like she _should_ have a headache, but she doesn’t. “I’m not dead … yet …”

 

She opens her eyes and winces in the brilliant light that floods them before she can focus on Michael’s concerned face floating above her; she sits beside Philippa, a hand on her shoulder shaking her gently.

 

Philippa smiles; the thought that this is a singularly beautiful face to wake up to fills her with warmth and joy.

 

Michael blushes, a tinge of red staining her cheeks beneath her rich dark complexion. Philippa watches in fascination as the blush spreads across the slightly lighter skin of her upper chest to the perfect globes of her breasts … her perfect, _naked_ cocoa-tipped breasts.

 

“Uh … Michael, you realise you’re naked …” she says, unable to stop staring in awe at those perfect, _flawless_ breasts.

 

Michael’s arm comes up reflexively to cover them from Philippa’s gaze, then she awkwardly lets them fall again. Philippa finds it absolutely adorable.

 

“Yes … well, _Captain Georgiou_ , in case you hadn’t noticed, so are you,” she deadpans with one eyebrow raised in her most _Vulcan_ expression. Now, _that_ Philippa is used to.

 

Philippa props herself up on her elbows and looks down at her own naked, considerably _less-perfect_ , torso.

 

“Huh … that’s different,” she mutters sitting up, not bothering to try and conceal her nudity, since Michael has seen it all before. She looks around; there is nothing, as far as the eye could see, but endless whiteness and Michael. “Where are we?”

 

After a long moment, the other woman replies quietly, “I’m not sure.”

 

“What about any others—have you seen anyone?”

 

Michael’s breath hitches in a curious little sob. “No,” she says softly. “No one is here but us … not even the Tardigrade.”

 

“Are you sure?” Philippa questions clamping down on that awful anxiety clenching in her gut. “Have you checked everywhere?”

 

“Look around you, Philippa,” Michael replies. “There is no _everywhere_ … there is only _here._ ”

 

“What do you mean?” Philippa stands up, suddenly antsy to get moving. “Have you tried searching?”

 

“By all means, captain, be my guest and  _search_ , if you don’t believe me.”

 

Philippa bristles at her lover’s sarcastic and frankly patronising tone of voice, but there is something else underlying it that she can’t quite identify and it gnaws at her stomach. Looking down at Michael, she is struck again by how beautiful and perfect her lover is—even when acting so uncharacteristically snarky.

 

Again, Michael blushes deeply, but the challenge in her dark eyes does not waiver.

 

Philippa takes a deep breath, accepts that challenge and starts walking forward. She feels Michael’s gaze on her naked back and her face heats up in answer. It takes all her willpower not to falter under the younger woman’s scrutiny and to keep moving forward at a steady pace, constantly scanning the endless _white_ for signs of life. She’s been walking for about five minutes, thinking of how strangely vulnerable Michael seems now in this unfathomable place, when she sees a dark spot silhouetted against the white in the distance.

 

Philippa quickens her pace, and then breaks into a flat-out run as it resolves into a dark figure sitting curled up in the white, head resting on their knees.

 

“Hello!” she shouts, as she draws closer. “Hello … I’m Captain Philippa Georgiou,” she pants out as she approaches the figure’s back. “Have you seen anyone else?”

 

The person lifts her head and looks over her shoulder. “No, only you, Philippa,” Michael sighs.

 

Philippa stares in open-mouthed shock. “ _Michael_? What the _fuck_?”

 

“Language, captain,” her former first officer admonishes with a grin. “As I tried to explain, before you took off; there is no one else … only _us_ … there is no place else … only _here_.”

 

Michael regards her frozen, immobile figure for a long moment. “Do you think I didn’t try this also? Do you think I didn’t try to find someone … find help the _moment_ I woke up?” Her voice hitches in a heart-breaking little sob. “All roads lead to _Rome_ , Philippa. As soon as I lost sight of you, there you were lying in front of me again.”

 

Philippa continues to stare down at her wordlessly, but she knows that Michael’s words are as accurate as they are deadly to her.

 

 _This_ is her worst nightmare—being told there was nowhere to go. For _Philippa Georgiou_ , there is always _somewhere_ to go … other places to go … other places out there, in the vastness of space, in which she can lose herself.

 

She looks down at Michael. It all comes back to _Michael_.

 

“Seriously, what the actual _fuck_ , Michael?” Her voice is small and panicked, and she hates it and all the memories it dredges up.

 

“Yes captain, as you so crudely put it, what the _actual_ _fuck_ , indeed.”

 

Philippa does a double-take at Michael’s incongruous swearing.

 

The fearful, jittery feeling makes Philippa feel sick to her stomach, what she imagines an addict would feel withdrawing from a drug, and she begins to pace back and forth beside Michael … only one mantra on her mind …

 

_Get out! Get out! Get out!_

 

She’d begun running early … that young girl whose family had died in a senseless accident … she’d lost herself in her arts …caught the eye of those who had trained her and turned her into a weapon …  and finally, after years of searching, found a measure of solace out among the stars.

 

Later, she’d run … from the unfathomable hunger gnawing deep within her soul … from too many nightmares … from too many deaths … from too much blood on her hands … from that last horrific covert _mission_ , in service of keeping the Federation _safe_ , that had sent her running naked into the night, covered in blood, on a world where _Human beings_ did not belong …

 

Philippa draws a ragged breath, trying to stem that tide of panic … that overwhelming need to run from this place, as if she can outrun that tsunami of memory itself …

 

Then there are gentle arms wrapped around her, stilling her incessant pacing and holding her against that soft, warm body; tears, which Philippa didn’t realise she has been crying, soak Michael’s bare shoulder.

 

Slowly she becomes aware of Michael’s silky, pliable flesh against her own, curves moulding and fitting perfectly into her negative spaces like a jigsaw puzzle.

 

Michael, as if realising for the first time that she is naked and hugging Philippa, took a startled step back. Looking away with embarrassment, she clears her throat noisily and then sat down again.

 

“Please sit down, Philippa, and let’s try to discuss this rationally,” she says.

 

“Discuss this _rationally_?” Philippa hates that her voice rises an octave and then cracks like a fourteen-year-old boy’s. “What’s there to discuss?”

 

“For one, how to get out of here!” Michael snaps.

 

“How to get out of here?” Philippa says incredulously. “You don’t even know where _here_ is!”

 

“I never said that.”

 

 _“What?”_ Philippa’s anger flares white-hot. “I distinctly remember asking where we were just after I woke up and you didn’t know!”

 

Michael looks away, focusing on something in the distance that Philippa can’t see.

 

“I never said that,” she repeats. “I said that I wasn’t _sure_.”

 

Philippa bites her bottom lip in order not to yell at the frustratingly enigmatic woman. “Then where do you _think_ we are?” she growls.

 

Michael silently stares into the distance.

 

“Michael, where are we?” Philippa asks, hating the fear in her voice.

 

“Like I said, I’m not sure,” she replies in a soft, hoarse voice. “Either we’re dead and in hell … or …” she says with a dark chuckle.

 

Philippa frowns at her. “Or?”

 

She faces Philippa at last. “Or we’re trapped on the mycelial plane—or at least our _minds_ are trapped in this representation of it—and we need to escape it before we die.”

 

_“What? Die?”_

 

Philippa stares at Michael in disbelief.

 

“Philippa,” Michael says quietly. “If our minds are here … our souls are here … then our bodies are out there,” she gestures at the whiteness. “And as far as I know, the body cannot survive without the mind … without the soul … the _katra_.”

 

“You have _got_ to be kidding!”

 

“Do I _look_ like I’m kidding?” she demands.

 

“All right, how do we get out of here?”

 

“I don’t know.” Michael looks thoughtful as she stares off into the distance. “I thought we’d be able to meet the Guardian of this place—have a chance to explain ourselves—at least that seemed to be what the Tardigrade was relaying,” she says in a soft, grim tone. “But right now, I’m not even sure that _Discovery_ still exists anymore …”

 

Philippa feels as if someone has punched her in the gut and knocked the wind out of her.

 

 _“Michael?”_ she whispers.

 

Michael does not acknowledge her for long moments.

 

“I don’t know,” she repeats, her voice low and hoarse. _“I don’t know.”_

 

They lapse into silence again, neither speaking for what seems an eternity to Philippa. She sits down again, considering the other woman as she stares out into the white. Michael is a very smart woman and an extremely good scientist; if she doesn’t know what to do …

 

“Perhaps if we work together … explored together, we can get out of here … we can get back to _Discovery_?” Philippa ventures, trying to get herself under control.

 

Michael stares silently into the white, still as a statue. It takes Philippa a moment to realize that she is crying.

 

“Michael?” Philippa said quietly, her heart constricting at the sight of the silent tears flowing from those dark, pain-filled eyes.

 

 _Nothing should be allowed to put such pain in those beautiful eyes_ , Philippa thinks as she reaches out instinctively to her distraught love; Michael flinches away from her.

 

 _“Don’t!”_ The order, in that raw, shredded voice, is unmistakeable, “Don’t _touch_ me!”

 

Philippa starts, drawing back in confusion. “Michael …  _what is—_ ”

 

Michael doesn’t seem to hear her as she continues in an increasingly hysterical voice that frankly scares Philippa.

 

“Of course, it seems that I am destined to be the Fates’ whipping girl!” she snarls. “Why couldn’t I have just died? You would think that after all the _practice_ I have had—I would be able to at least get _that_ right! But no … I can’t even _die_ right … had to drag you here too—”

 

Philippa gapes at the other woman in horror as Michael’s words penetrates her consciousness at last.

 

_She’d been sure she was going to die …_

 

Philippa knows that Michael has faced death a number of times … from the Klingon raid on Doctari Alpha that killed her birth parents, when she was entirely too young; to the bombing of the Vulcan Learning Centre that  _had_ killed her, entirely too close to permanently, if not for her foster father Sarek’s quick triage—using his telepathy and his own _katra_ as a scaffold for Michael’s soul—as she was resuscitated; to any number of missions for Starfleet; to that last flyby mission to the Klingon sarcophagus ship, in which if the Klingons failed to kill her, the radiation should have … and now the Tardigrade and this unfathomable place …

 

Philippa _knows_ of Michael’s brushes with death, but she has never for a moment considered that Michael may have _wanted_ to die—

 

 _No!_ It is too much! Her fierce, formidable lover … no, not Michael … no …

 

 _No!_ _I need Michael!_

 

Without giving her a chance to move away again, Philippa pulls the hysterically rambling woman into a tight hug.

 

_And then the screaming begins._

 

#

 

_And then the pain …_

_And then the deluge … of memories … of pain … of blood …_

_And then time ceased meaning … in those times of blood …_

_And oh God, so much blood …_

_First the Klingons …_

_Mama … Daddy … Mama … Daddy …_

_Wake up … please wake up …_

_Then Vulcan Logic Extremists …_

_My mind to your mind …_

_Stay, please stay … it is not time to go yet, Little One _…__

_Then Starfleet …_

_And full circle back to the Klingons again …_

_All drowning Michael in blood …_

_In pain …_

_Ripping her open …_

_Hollowing her out …_

_Ripping her open …_

_Hollowing her out …_

_Ripping her open …_

_Hollowing her out …_

_Oh God …_

_The darkness closes in and she find herself at the bottom of a well … scrabbling at high, slick walls as blood rises to drown her …_

_Oh God …_

_The memories._

_Oh God …_

_The blood._

_“Mama … Daddy … wake up … Please wake up! Please! Please! Please …”_

#

 

Michael’s eyes float above her, full of profound regret pushing away the pain … and Philippa vaguely realizes the younger woman is now holding her in her lap … supporting her suddenly uncooperative body …

 

“I’m sorry … I’m sorry … I’m sorry …” Michael repeats over and over, sobbing as she strokes Philippa’s hair until the pain passes and Philippa can breathe again.

 

Philippa nods, understanding now rising out of all that blood. She lifts a weighted hand to cup Michael’s trembling chin.

 

“I know,” she rasps out, staring up at Michael in wonder. “I know you tried to protect me from it. _Shh_ … _shh_ now, my darling,” she says gently, brushing the tears away. “I understand, Michael; _I understand_. It was inevitable I suppose … it was inevitable from the first … I am for you—I understand that now.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Michael hiccoughs again.

 

“Why? I’m not. I am for you; I always have been—please don’t tell me you would reject that … you would reject _me_ ,” Philippa whispers, afraid now that the possibility would become real once voiced.

 

 _“I can’t.”_ Tears came again, hard and honest. “I can’t,” she repeats. “I’m too weak … too selfish.”

 

“It isn’t weak to love, my darling. It isn’t selfish.”

 

“I don’t deserve—”

 

“It isn’t a matter of _deserving_ ,” Philippa assures, moving out of her lap and sitting up to face her. “It never is—not with real love.” Philippa reaches for her hands, squeezing them gently. “You just have to accept it freely, because that’s how it’s given, Michael … _freely_.”

 

And then she feels it wash over her like a tsunami … _love_ …

 

For the first time, she truly feels _Michael’s love_ , fully and consciously … and for the first time, she _truly_ feels her own.

 

From the moment they’d met, on some level Philippa realises now, she has always known she was attracted to the younger woman; inevitably, as was her nature, she’d run as fast as she could from it—denying even _herself_ that knowledge. And although she has known since that terrible day in the light of the binary stars that Michael loves her, she has never dreamt of such _depths_ of love.

 

_What a fool I was._

 

She had always thought she would never know what it felt like to literally possess someone’s heart and soul, but looking into Michael’s eyes now, as she wraps her arms around her and holds her securely, she knows …

 

Philippa knows that from now on, it will be like this … it will always be like this. This knowledge … this _knowing_ will always be there between them, for Michael will always _know_ her too.

 

“Oh, Philippa … I’m sorry,” Michael whispers tearfully. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve had to endure in life … and everything you’ve had to endure because of _me_.”

 

Philippa consciously realises then that, just as she had experienced Michael’s _life_ when she’d initiated contact with her, Michael had experienced _her life_ the first time she’d touched Philippa in this mindscape. Now they were truly connected mind to mind, heart to heart … dreams to dreams.

 

Philippa draws her closer and kisses her lips gently. She doesn’t have to say it … there is nothing to say, because as far as she is concerned, there is nothing to forgive. No, after that experience, she knows that Michael has already paid a hundred-fold for any crimes she may have committed, and it breaks Philippa’s heart to know that she’s paid so heavily for crimes that _others_ have committed.

 

 _A scapegoat for_ Starfleet’s  _failures … the_ Federation’s  _failures with the Klingons …_ my  _failures._

 

“How can you feel that way?” Michael husks, looking at her in wonder as Philippa’s love and thoughts register. “After everything I have _done_?”

 

 _And there is still such a quagmire of_ guilt  _here._

 

“Because now I _know_ … now I _see_ , Michael; I see _so_ _much_ and it breaks my heart.”

 

Michael begins to cry earnestly again; her guilt is incredibly palpable, and Philippa simply pulls her close, holding her as she cries herself out.

 

“As much as my memories broke your heart when you first touched me, Michael, yours shattered mine. But all that brokenness is in the past, isn’t it; _together_ , we can be _whole_ —together, _we_ are the future, my love.”

 

Michael’s arms tighten around her, clinging as if for dear _life!_

 

 _She is my life,_ Philippa realises and rejoices in the rightness of it.

 

Philippa eases them down from their seated positions, coaxing her love to lie down, still within the circle of her arms, her head upon Philippa’s shoulder. And then as simple as whispering, _“sleep”_ to the younger woman, Michael sighs … eyes fluttering close … and sleeps, dragging Philippa down into unfathomable depths of dreams … _together_.

 

#


	2. Chapter 1

The hologram did not do her justice, but in less than twenty-four hours, it had made her a legend throughout the Fleet as it spread like wildfire from ship to ship to station to outposts and worlds across Federation space.

 

 _“What you have seen and heard here today, is the culmination of the work of many_ individuals _._ Discovery  _was conceived as a science ship, a ship of exploration, where_ individuals  _could come together to collaborate and explore our vast universe. Today, by necessity, she is a_ ship of war _, and all of_ you _—whether officer, enlisted, civilian, scientist, engineer, healer—we are all today,_ warriors!  _Our enemy wanted this war—to unite their Houses … to glorify their so-called messiah … to show our galactic community their strength and their_ honour _—to earn an_ honourable death  _and their place in Sto-vo-kor! They have_ denigrated  _the United Federation of Planets, all our peoples and all we have built … denigrated_ us  _as weak and homogenized, because we strove for_ peace!

_“But_ we  _know the_ truth _; war is not about glory … it is not really even about honour. There are rarely honourable deaths in war, only_ blood  _and_ guts  _and_ screams _, even when there is no one there to witness it—_ especially  _when there is no one to witness it. It isn’t weakness to strive for peace … peace takes_ strength _, and yes, peace takes_ blood  _and_ guts  _and_ screams _;_ we  _recognise that. And look around you—we are_ not  _homogenized, we are a whole; a whole comprised of individuals … individual persons … individual peoples … individual species … individual worlds—_ we  _are a great_ Federation of Individuals _. They_ believe  _that to accept other species is to_ pollute  _themselves and to_ weaken  _what it is to be Klingon; we_ know  _that to accept other species is to_ add  _to ourselves and to_ strengthen  _who we are! We_ know  _that there is_ strength in diversity  _and there is_ infinite diversity in infinite combinations _, and therefore,_ infinite strength  _to be found in embracing our_ diversity  _in this_ combination of peoples, species and worlds  _that is_ our Federation!

 

 _“The Klingons believe that_ they  _are the only_ true  _warriors; they forget that each of our species, in each of our own unique and myriad ways, are_ warriors  _as well—that_ we  _have all_ fought  _for the_ right  _to be where we are today, to be out here among the stars … that we have all given_ blood  _and_ guts  _and_ screams  _for the peace that our Federation is_ renowned  _for. They have forgotten that we are_ honourable warriors  _in our own_ right _, and so, we shall_ remind  _them, by taking_ war  _to them; we shall take_ Discovery  _into Klingon space and_ remind  _them._

 

_“They wanted this war; and so, we shall give them a belly full of war!”_

 

Commodore Farzaneh Paris felt tears of undeniable pride threatening for the thousandth time, as she stood on the threshold of Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell’s office, listening again to her old friend Captain Philippa Georgiou’s words. But with it also came an overwhelming sense of _shame_. Shame for what the Admiralty, in its _wisdom_ , was attempting to do to Philippa, her lover, and her crew.

 

“We’ve got to stop this, Kat,” she husked. “They won’t stand for it … the newsfeeds this morning—I can’t believe the Admiralty would just announce it like that. The entire crew is up in arms! You know that these _‘fact-finding inquiries’_ and  _‘preliminary hearings’_ are nothing more than stepping stones to courts martial!”

 

Katrina lifted her tired gaze from her computer console and smiled wanly as she shut down the hologram of Philippa projected above her office’s meeting table.

 

Farzaneh had thought she’d looked tired eleven days ago when _Discovery_ had returned—and instead of being treated like the heroes they were, the ship’s crew were consigned to limbo—but if anything, Katrina now looked even more exhausted.

 

“Come in, Zana,” her friend invited. “Louis-Georges and the others will be here shortly. Coffee?”

 

Kat rose and crossed to the replicator in the corner as Farzaneh took the seat on her left and placed her PADD on the table.

 

“The usual—Deneva Black, if you still have it programmed,” she replied.

 

Katrina laughed as she tapped the order into the replicator’s control panel. “I can’t believe you’re _still_ drinking that sludge!”

 

“I’m nearly _sixty_ years old, Kat, and Starfleet expects me to be on call 24-7; so yes, I still drink that sludge!” she retorted at the familiar complaint. “You _cannot_ expect me to survive on that blueberry-flavoured  _bilge water_ you have the nerve to call tea and still keep my sanity intact.”

 

“Actually, it’s cranberry-pomegranate,” Kat corrected, retrieving the mug that appeared. “I’ve never understood what you have against tea.”

 

 _“Merde,”_ Admiral Louis-Georges Picard, Director of Starfleet Intelligence, swore as he walked in with Director of Starfleet Operations Commodore Robert April and Vice Admiral Vrishiren th’Zihl, the Director of Starfleet Bureau of Shipbuilding. “They’re already arguing over tea.”

 

April gave a deep, rumbling laugh and went over to the replicator to order a coffee and an Andorian iced  _bihlei_ infusion for th’Zihl, while Picard poured himself a cup of tea from the service Katrina had on her desk.

 

Farzaneh glared, grabbing the mug from Katrina as her friend gave her a distinctly _disturbing_ grin.

 

“I have nothing against tea— _proper_ tea,” she replied primly. “Philippa always had a lovely ginger or an absolutely sublime green tea on hand whenever I visited her.”

 

“Yes, and our Pippa always had the _worst_ taste in Scotch,” Kat laughed over her teacup and the mood immediately became sombre.

 

“Well, I didn’t need _Pippa’s_ taste in Scotch, now did I; that’s why I have you,” Farzaneh retorted after an uncomfortable moment.

 

“That is the _only_ reason most people invite Kat into polite company,” April quipped. “Her exquisite taste in alcohol.”

 

Picard took his place on the other side of Katrina, sipped his tea and promptly choked, nearly spewing it at th’Zihl directly across the small round table.

 

 _“Mon Dieu!”_ he sputtered in between gasps and sopping himself with napkins as April roared with laughter. _“What?”_ He looked down quizzically at the contents of his cup, then rose quickly and recycled it, tapping an order into the replicator.  “Do I even _want_ to know what the _hell_ that was, Katrina? It tasted of weak chocolate-flavoured rose water infused with hot chillies!” he said in outrage, returning to the table with his small, neat tea service.

 

“You should know by now _not_ to drink whatever concoction Katrina is drinking, alcoholic or otherwise, Louis-Georges,” Farzaneh scolded without sympathy. “Just be grateful when it doesn’t make your family jewels fall off.”

 

A choking noise came from behind her and she looked over her shoulder, schooling her expression as she regarded the two captains standing there.

 

“Come in, Captain Archer, Captain Nechayev,” Katrina invited, laughing at the young man, who was turning an alarming shade of red; the arctic-blond woman next to him thumped his back with a good-natured smile. “Get yourselves something to drink.”

 

“Just don’t drink the _tea_ on her desk,” Farzaneh added helpfully.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Adele Nechayev replied with a chuckle. “Coffee, Hank?” she asked her companion, who nodded as he finally seemed to catch his breath; then the last member of the group arrived. The poor boy almost lost it again, but pulled himself together admirably, quickly scurrying to sit down with April on his left and accepting a cup from Nechayev, who sat on his right, putting some distance between him and the last unoccupied chair.

 

Farzaneh smiled. Dr. Irailo Thesirih-Ra-Niroq, head of the Xenobiological Division of Starfleet Medical, was a Deltan—and probably the most beautiful female anyone in the room had ever seen. She was gorgeous enough to make most men—and women, for that matter—swallow their tongues.

 

“ _Mmm_ … Cynveld italisin leaf tea,” she purred in her delicious accent, delicately wrinkling that perfect nose, on that perfectly-shaped bald head, as she darted over to the desk and poured herself a cup. Farzaneh would probably be annoyed with Irailo if she hadn’t become one of her closest friends since she, Farzaneh, had rotated back to Earth fifteen months ago to take up the interim directorship of the Bureau of Starfleet Personnel, when Admiral Costo Bren had begun to experience sudden health problems. “Ah … the chocolate-infused ceremonial brew. Katrina, my dear, you do have the most perfectly _exquisite_ taste!”

 

“Thank you, Irailo,” Kat said smugly, eyes twinkling madly. “I do try; but given that I am surrounded on all sides by these _Neanderthals_ … does make it rather difficult.”

 

 _Cynveld_ , Farzaneh frowned—it sounded vaguely familiar—something … a memo in the last few weeks. _Chocolate infusion—now why would that have come across my desk?_ she wondered, when it hit her. _Cynveld—_ Betazoid  _chocolate-infused ceremonial teas …_ aphrodisiac  _teas—oh …_

 

 _“Bloody hell! Kat!”_ she shouted involuntarily; both Katrina and Irailo broke into gales of giggles at her expense. Their Deltan friend leaned in to peck Farzaneh’s cheek before darting around the table to take her seat between Picard and Nechayev.

 

 _Only_ Katrina  _would have the nerve to drink and serve an_ aphrodisiac tea  _at a meeting like this._

 

“Do we even want to know what that was about?” Vrishiren th’Zihl asked; the Andorian admiral’s antennae twitched with definite amusement.

 

“I wouldn’t even think about it, Shiren,” April advised. “From my vast experience with my better half, when a group of females get like this, we males should just sit back, shut up and wait for their orders. Look at Captain Nechayev, boys—” he said and they all regarded blushing blonde. “They haven’t even spoken one word to her, and yet, she’s already in on the conspiracy,” he chuckled, a knowing look in his eyes. “The only thing that could make it worse would be to add the original _‘Third Witch’_ of the _USS Excalibur_ to the group—but then, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? _‘Double, double, toil and trouble …’_ ”

 

“ _‘Fire burn, and cauldron bubble,’_ indeed, Commodore April, indeed,” Picard finished the quote with quiet gravity.

 

Katrina brought her laughter under control; her eyes were large and sad in her thin face. “On that note, let’s get started. Computer, engage full privacy mode for my office—authorisation Cornwell gamma-one-delta-delta-epsilon-sigma-six.”

 

“Acknowledged, Vice Admiral Cornwell; full privacy mode engaged.”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from _Macbeth_  by William Shakespeare
> 
>  


	3. Interlude

_Oh Kat, what are you doing to yourself?_ is the first thing Farzaneh thinks when she materializes in the San Francisco Fleet Yard Station’s expansive transporter room where her friend waits. Never given to fleshiness, Katrina is whippet-thin … pared down to bone, overlaid with sinew and precisely filleted muscle.

 

Farzaneh had last seen her just over a month ago, when their schedules had overlapped for a few hours, and she had noted the toll the war was taking on her friend.

 

Now, her heart weeps, but there is little she can do except find the time _somewhere_ to tempt her to eat more and be there for her when she inevitably crashes; such is the way of things with Katrina.

 

Now, though, it is time for _Philippa_.

 

Katrina’s call had come during what had been the middle of the night for Farzaneh. She’d taken a few days away from the war—and the inevitable consequences of it—to visit with Thomas, her eldest son, and his wife Margaret in London, and to welcome her first grandchild, Robert, to the family. A few days in which the Interim Director for the Bureau of Starfleet Personnel could have some respite from dealing with condolences to another mother … father … husband … wife … child …

 

 _“_ Discovery  _has returned, Zana—and they’ve done it! Philippa’s Michael has done it! But oh, Farzaneh, Pippa … Michael …”_

 

Katrina had cried openly, tears tracing down her sharp-chiseled features. But these were not jubilant tears, due to Michael Burnham’s deciphering the Klingon cloaking technology; Farzaneh had known that immediately.

 

With quick efficiency, borne of nearly forty years in Starfleet, she’d swiftly changed from her nightclothes into her uniform. A moment to record a brief message for Thomas and Maggie and she’d transported back to Starfleet Headquarters in San Francisco, before calling for Katrina to transport her to the station.

 

“What is it, Katrina?” she demands without preamble and starts to step down from the transporter pad. A quick shake of her head and Kat climbs onto the platform, as Farzaneh resumes her former position.

 

“Cornwell to _Discovery_ ; two to transport.”

 

“Acknowledged, Admiral Cornwell,” a disembodied voice replies, “Please stand by.”

 

A moment later, the station’s transporter room is replaced by a similar, albeit smaller, shipboard transporter room. In addition to the _entirely-too-young_ man at the transporter controls, they are met by Philippa’s tall Kelpien first officer, Commander Saru, and the comparatively small Human security chief, Commander Ellen Landry.

 

And Farzaneh’s heart breaks at their strained, solemn expressions. It takes her a moment to realise that Louis-Georges is also present; she’s not as close to him as Philippa and Katrina are, but she’s known him for years, and worked closely enough with him—since her return—that she now counts him as a good friend.

 

“Hello Farzaneh,” he says quietly, passing her as he mounts the transporter platform. “We don’t have much time, Katrina. Terral and I can stall Anderton, Cartwright, Myrami’toch and their cronies for about an hour—certainly no more than two. Bring Farzaneh up to speed and finish getting _Discovery’s_ crew ready as best you can.”

 

“Understood.”

 

He nods, grey-blue eyes at once hard, yet soft with compassion. “Transport me down to Headquarters, Ensign Garcia.”

 

“Yes sir,” the boy replies and Louis-George disappears.

 

“Any requests for transport, ensign,” Katrina begins.

 

“Direct them straight to you, Admiral Cornwell,” he replies smartly.

 

“Excellent. All requests should come through Communications, but someone might try to get clever.”

 

She smiles wanly, then turns and leaves with Saru and Landry; Farzaneh has no choice but to follow.

 

#

 

“Admiral on the bridge!” The young male lieutenant at Communications barks out the old formality as the group steps out of the turbolift onto the bridge and, with the rest of the crew, rises sharply to attention.”

 

“As you were,” Katrina acknowledges with a nod, before leading the group to the briefing room, where Philippa’s remaining senior officers are assembled.

 

After perfunctory introductions, Farzaneh takes charge before Katrina can begin. “Dr. Culber, what is Captain Georgiou’s condition?” she demands. “I take it from all your expressions, it is quite grave.”

 

The young man flinches perceptibly at her tone, but pulls his confidence and dignity about him like a cloak as Lieutenant Stamets places a gentle hand on his forearm. “Physically, Captain Georgiou and Science Specialist Burnham are in excellent health,” he reports in a quiet, professional tone. “However, there was an incident with the Tardigrade during this last jump through the mycelial network, which has resulted in their minds becoming disassociated from their bodies.”

 

Farzaneh stares at him with incomprehension, even as a primal _horror_ eats at her gut.

 

“Their autonomic systems remain strong and somehow at equilibrium without the need eat, drink or even breathe, Commodore,” he continues gently, bringing the holoprojector up to display the spore drive cube. Philippa and Michael hold hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and floating among a galaxy of spores, as if frozen in one perfect moment of love.

 

“And, while we can monitor their physical health, there is little evidence of consciousness—or even unconscious thought—since _Discovery_ returned to Earth. And we have no idea, at this time, how to go about treating that.”

 

Everything slows for Farzaneh then, to the ponderous, grinding pace of shifting glaciers, and it takes all her strength to turn her gaze from Culber to Katrina. She finds a statue of bone-white marble seated before her.

 

#

 

A long moment of uncomfortable silence reigns before Katrina comes back to herself.

 

“As Dr. Culber indicated, Commodore Paris, there isn’t much we can do for Captain Georgiou or Specialist Burnham,” she says; her words are sharp and clipped, her eyes hooded and Farzaneh nods, acknowledging her authority. “All we can do is wait for them to wake up, and as they are currently confined to the drive cube, we will need to work around them. Our first order of business is to disseminate the new scanners and the parameters of the new cloak detection system, as quickly as possible, to as many ships in the fleet as possible.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“Vice Admiral Shiren has already taken possession of the technology, as well as the new weapons _Discovery_ has developed,” she continues briskly. “And as we speak, the in-system shipyards, as well as all manufactory colliers still here, are being updated. By tomorrow, all starships in-system will begin to receive emergency refits and as soon as the first ships are completed, they will be sent at high warp to the nearest starbases to deliver the information, technology and personnel. Because Captain Georgiou is correct; we _cannot_ afford to broadcast something this sensitive across subspace. As Lieutenant Bryce just amply demonstrated, with his breakthrough on the Klingon communications, you never know _who_ may be listening, despite the best security and encryption,” she says with a thin smile.

 

“However, as soon as the industrial replicators onboard the colliers are programmed, and they’re finished re-stocking and re-provisioning, they’ll move out within the week protected by a phalanx of refitted ships headed to the front. But given that the colliers’ top speed is warp 8, our three best and fastest ships will act as couriers, running ahead at the highest sustainable warp factors, to apprise the admirals at the front; get them started with at least the cloak detection system. Captain Sevak and the _USS T’Pol_ are already in-system and will be first in line for the refits; Captain Matthew Decker will be here with the _Constitution_ within eight hours and Captain Anna N’gomo, a few hours later with the _Endeavour_.

 

“The _T’Pol_ will make directly for Rear Admiral Teashukar ch’Theloh—he should be able to get there within fifteen to twenty days; the Ninth and Twelfth Fleets have been able to get a solid foothold on the Japori front since the Klingon pullback started after Philippa’s raids. Captain Sevak will place himself and his ship under Admiral Shukar’s command and bring his people up to speed on _Discovery’s_ breakthroughs—hopefully get the cloak detection system up and running in enough ships _before_ the Klingons get bold enough to stop fearing Philippa’s _boogeyman_ and poke their heads out again. Meanwhile, Captain Decker will head for Admiral Ilsarith’s fleets in Xarantine Sector, and Captain N’gomo will do the same for Admiral Gorch and Vice Admiral Nicola Drake, who are holding the Aldebaran and adjacent Donatu Sectors respectively. Once we have those hotspots covered, we can concentrate on getting the rest of the fleet refitted on a rotating basis.”

 

“I take it you’ll need me to start juggling personnel in rapid fashion?” Farzaneh queries ruefully.

 

Katrina inelegantly snorts a laugh. “Oh, we’ll be juggling personnel all right,” she replies, eyes flashing in a distinctly _‘Katrina-ish’_ fashion, which generally spelled trouble for Farzaneh and, occasionally, Philippa. “But first, what do you think of Captain Corrigan?”

 

“ _Helena_ Corrigan—my Division Head for Active Fleet Coordination?” Farzaneh asks, puzzled at her friend’s sudden change in direction; Katrina nods. “She’s an excellent officer—moving her from a support role in Security to a Personnel Division Head definitely made the best use of her talents. She seems to have an almost preternatural ability to take simple personnel files and rapidly analyse them to make recommendations regarding officers who would work best together. A little more seasoning and time in the field to gain further command experience, and I think she would make an excellent Director for Personnel in a few years—certainly within a decade.”

 

 _Discovery’s_ senior crew goggled at her as she gave her analysis; she supposed they weren’t used to flag officers giving candid opinions of junior officers in front of them.

 

“What’s going on Katrina?”

 

“Admiral Costo Bren has left Rhaandar and should return to Personnel within the next three weeks.”

 

Farzeneh feels a pang of disappointment deep in her gut, but is professional enough to not let it show; she’s enjoyed her time as Interim Director and will miss it, but this is Starfleet.

 

“So, they’ve finally figured out what caused his health crisis?” she asks smiling at the euphemism.

 

Katrina laughs. “Yeah … his new aide needed to learn the difference between a _vegan_ and a Vegan.”

 

Farzaneh’s laughter explodes out of her, as _Discovery’s_ senior officers stare in wide-eyed shock for a beat, before dissolving into giggles themselves.

 

 _“The aide thought that the admiral’s dietary restriction was his species classification?”_ Culber yelps in disbelief. “Oh, dear god! Is the admiral okay?”

 

“Oh, he’s fine,” Katrina drawls, “once the doctors on his homeworld finally got his innards _de-gunked_ of all the animal products. It’s shaved a year or two off his life-expectancy, but given that he’s a 125-year-old Rhaandarite, and expects to live 350 to 400 years, he’s pretty philosophical about it. He’s even decided to keep his eager, greenhorn ensign, but needless to say, he _will_ be returning with a Rhaandarite chef and a nutritionist in his personal retinue.”

 

“And me?” Farzaneh chuckles softly. “Where do I head next? With the war on, a new starbase out in the middle of the Denobula Sector, far from the Klingon front, hasn’t exactly been top priority.”

 

“Sorry,” Kat replies apologetically. “Even if the war stops tomorrow, the Admiralty doesn’t envision being able to shift resources to complete it for at least another six months—more likely, another year.”

 

Farzaneh nods, smiling acceptance she doesn’t truly feel.

 

“However, while our newest R&D starbase won’t need you for a while, Zana, I need _The Green Witch_ , right here, right now on _Discovery_ ,” she says holding Farzaneh’s startled gaze. The sounds of confusion from the junior officers are muted, as Katrina’s lips turn up in a slow, decidedly _impish_ grin. Farzaneh groans, dropping her head into her hands at the nickname that has followed her for the better part of the last 30 years—thanks in no small part to her two closest friends.

 

Stamets’ incredulous voice cuts through the din. “Wait— _Commodore Paris_ is the Green Witch? But the Witches are just an old ’Fleet myth!”

 

Katrina laughs, full and hearty; it’s the happiest sound Farzaneh has heard from her in a long time, and it warms her, even if it is at her expense.

 

“Keep telling yourself that, lieutenant,” she teases as Farzaneh growls a strangled _“Kat!”_ sending her friend, and the assembled officers, into deeper hilarity. And even though Philippa’s officers are laughing at _her_ , Farzaneh realises that Katrina, in one fell swoop, has basically _humanised_ her in their eyes, and it will make it infinitely easier for her to work with them.

 

As they settle down again, it is Commander Saru who asks, “The Witches?”

 

“The Three Witches of the _Excalibur_ —three women who were said to be able to fix any problem that arose on the ship, commander,” Stamets replies staring at Farzaneh with an unnerving expression of awe. “There was the Green Witch—a genius in Science, Engineering and Technology; and the Yellow Witch—in charge of Command, Operations and Control Systems … _oh, my God!_ That was _you_ , wasn’t it, Admiral Cornwell?”

 

Katrina performs a quick theatrical bow in reply, as Culber sputters, “But she _wasn’t_ command track on _Excalibur_ , she was medical!”

 

“Hugh, _sweetie_ ,” Stamets gently chides his partner. “She’s an _admiral_ ; I think it’s safe to say that she’s _always_ been command track, in one way or another. So, that means the Red Witch—”

 

“Was Captain Georgiou,” Landry concludes with definite pride shining in her eyes. “Security, Weaponry and Tactics.”

 

“ _Diplomacy_ , Security, Weaponry and Tactics,” Farzaneh corrects quietly; they give her their undivided attention. “Our Pippa has always been a diplomat first, commander.”

 

“But when diplomacy fails …” Katrina begins Philippa’s axiom, “always make sure you’re carrying the biggest, _fucking_ gun in your pocket,” she choruses with her friend, shocking the younger officers again; you’d think—by the way they are goggling at her and Katrina—they’d never heard a couple of old women swear before.

 

“And Pippa certainly had some very big guns this time, Zana,” Katrina continues, contagious excitement flashing in her eyes. “ _Discovery_ not only racked up some impressive kill numbers, over the course of _two days_ behind enemy lines, but pulled a _fucking_ spectacular Doolittle Raid on _Qo’noS_ itself!”

 

Farzneh’s jaw dropped, and it was her turn to gape at Philippa’s officers with awe.

 

“She did no damage to the planet, but showed the Klingons how easily she could _bomb_ them to kingdom come—” Katrina’s grin was positively wolfish now. “Then Philippa broadcasted an ultimatum planet-wide, telling the _Klingon Chancellor_ to get his _ass_ to the bargaining table, because if they forced her to come back, she would do so with _live ordinances_.”

 

Farzaneh didn’t think her jaw could drop any lower, but now it felt positively _unhinged_ —not to mention, _she_ felt a bit unhinged, herself, in the face of these extraordinary revelations.

 

“But _that_ is what has the Klingons in a tailspin, and scrambling to pull back from the front—pulling every available ship back to protect Qo’noS. _They_ are now on the defensive, which buys us a little time to breathe and little room to manoeuvre—time to get the fleet upgraded with _Discovery’s_ innovations.”

 

 _“Thank you,”_ Farzaneh husks, regarding each officer in turn, including the quiet little Fire Dancer, who has yet to speak. “If Starfleet does not say it enough, thank you—each and every one of you,” she says sincerely, as each officer stiffens with pride and nods courteously.

 

“And that’s also why I need my Green Witch on _Discovery_ , Zana,” Katrina continues more soberly now, holding her gaze meaningfully. “Commander Saru will continue as acting captain, with Commander Landry as his first officer, in regards to day to day ship operations. But I need you here, not only to protect Philippa’s crew and ship, but also to direct the ongoing research and development. As well, I need the _Witch_ to dive into Specialist Burnham’s R&D project logs—because apparently, the cloak detection system is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to that young woman’s mind and capabilities.”

 

“Understood,” Farzaneh says smartly. “I take it that we don’t have much time before the official inquiries begin?”

 

Katrina barks a laugh. “Understatement of the _year_ , my friend—but then you were always prone to those. Because of the incident with the Tardigrade and stopping _mid-jump_ on the mycelial plane, although less than half an hour passed, according to shipboard chronometers when they emerged again, more than _twelve_ _hours_ had passed real time in this quantum reality … plane … whatever the hell you eggheads are calling it this year,” she grouses good-humouredly and Farzaneh impudently blows her a kiss. “But that means reports from the front and official _complaints_ from the Klingons got here _before_ the _Discovery_ did. And the _Klingons_ are screaming for Philippa’s head, throwing the Admiralty into a tizzy—”

 

“Hence Louis-Georges’ and Terral’s attempts to head them off and reason with … shall we say … the most vocal of our good Captain Georgiou’s critics?”

 

“Yes, let’s say,” she retorts dryly. “Many are _dismayed_ that Philippa is in no condition to address their concerns, some are _less_ _dismayed_ as they are more _concerned_ about the _optics_ of the situation and charges of  _atrocity_.”

 

“They’re afraid of another Captain Garth of Izar,” Farzaneh husks and Katrina nods grimly now.

 

“ _Oh gods_. I was the one who advised the captain—” Landry’s eyes are wide with comprehension as her complexion turns ashen; the room is utterly silent.

 

“ _Don’t_ , commander,” Farzaneh cuts her off in her most commanding tones; the younger woman flinches, but meets her gaze. “Do you for a _moment_ think that _Philippa Georgiou_ did not know what she was about … that she did not consider _all_ the angles and their consequences—a hundred times over— _before_ she made her move?”

 

“No ma’am!”

 

“Then don’t _belittle_ that now with your _misplaced_ _guilt_ , Commander Landry; do not belittle  _her_. That the Klingons have run back home with their tails well up between their legs proves that her tactics … _your_ _tactics_ were sound, no matter what any _armchair admiral_ may say now.”

 

“Yes ma’am!”

 

“Good.” She regarded them silently again for a moment. “What you’ve all accomplished, individually, and as a crew, is nothing short of  _extraordinary_ —and you are to be commended; you should _not_ be facing the sorts of questions and censure you may face now. So, I promise you that I will do _everything_ in my power to make sure that your accomplishments are not diminished at the altar of _political expediency_.

 

“But know this also, while from this moment you are _my people_ , you are _not_ my crew, and this is _not_ my ship; until she wakes up and releases you from your duties, you are still _Captain Philippa Georgiou’s crew_ and _Discovery_ is still _Captain Georgiou’s ship_. And more than her crew, you are _her people_ , as Michael Burnham is _her people_ … as Katrina and I have been _her people_ for thirty years … as those who have served with her and under her command are _her people_ —and _that_ is a very large community, my friends. _Welcome!_ ”

 

#


	4. Chapter 2

“All right Louis-Georges, why don’t you get started,” Katrina said quietly and sat back to sip her tea.

 

“Thank you, Katrina,” he replied, turning his gaze to the two youngest people in the room. “Captains, do you have any idea why you’re here?”

 

“No, not really, sir,” Henry “Hank” Archer replied, looking wary and every bit like his famous grandfather, Admiral Jonathan Archer.

 

“Given my new command of the refit _USS Glenn_ and Hank’s command of the newest _Crossfield_ Class starship, the  _USS Hawking_ , Commodore April’s comment, the holo-recording that’s been broadcasting all over the Fleet during the last week, and the recent reports of massive death and destruction across Klingon space—enough to make them suddenly pull back from the front,” Adele Nechayev said with a rueful smile, “we don’t _know_ , but we _assume_ this has something to do with Captain Georgiou, our sister ship the _USS Discovery_ , and her recent—and rather _sudden_ —arrival back at Starfleet Command with her captain incapacitated. We _assume_ that Captain Georgiou got _Discovery’s_ experimental drive working, then went out and _spanked_ the Klingons to the tune of 30,000 casualties—”

 

“My sources say it was closer to _45,000_ casualties,” Archer interjected with an easy smile, “along with the destruction of over _5,000_ Klingon ships, two cloaked research stations, the _Korvat shipyard_ and probably the _cloaked_ system defense satellites there as well—and reports out of Orion space indicate that the destruction of the shipyard and inner system assets happened _before_ the destruction of the satellites.”

 

“Not to mention, she _obliterated_ quite a few task forces from Khitomer’s _secret Black Fleet of T’Kuvma_ for an encore,” Nechayev continued, “all over the course of two or three _days_ —and now the _Klingons_ are crying _atrocity_ and baying for blood! But really, we don’t know much at all, Admiral Picard.”

 

“Ah,” he replied mildly, and Farzaneh couldn’t help but laugh at his consternation; she knew that she’d chosen her captains well. “Well, for your information, we only have confirmation for 3,800 ships, captains.”

 

“Good to know, sir; we wouldn’t want to exaggerate, now would we,” Archer replied sarcastically. “And may we know why, after delivering such absolutely _stellar and spectacular_ results—after _single-handedly_ turning the tide of this war with radical new weapons, new tactics … new _scanners_ in _a new cloak detection system_ , which you’ve frantically begun to install on all ships headed to the front …”

 

“And not to mention, a bunch of brand spanking new _cadets_ , who seem to have seen more battle than most hardened veterans I know, and led by one _Cadet Sylvia Tilly_ —” his fellow captain said in outrage, “who looks like she should still be in her dorm room braiding her roommate’s hair and giggling about which boy or girl they’re taking to tonight’s _beer pong extravaganza_ —but who is on _my ship_ at this moment, teaching both Hank’s and my seasoned engineers and transporter techs how to put together new, and _hellishly volatile_ , plasma grenades, as well as how to _bypass_ every transporter safety protocol … _‘because, you know … it isn’t like we’re transporting something important, you know … like people or anything’_ … in order to _beam, at warp_ , said grenades onto _cloaked_ Klingon ships and installations—

 

“After all that, do we _get_ to know why _Starfleet_ is looking to _court martial_ , in absentia, a reportedly injured and _comatose Captain Georgiou_ , as well as said _Cadet Tilly?_ ” she snarled angrily.

 

“Yes,” Picard said quietly, “you do get to know why, captains. But first, tell me, did you get your updated casualty statistics from Cadet Tilly or any of the other personnel from _Discovery_?”

 

“No, sir,” Archer replied. “ _Discovery’s_ personnel, down to the youngest, that being _Cadet Tilly_ , know how to keep their mouths shut—that is one seriously _scary_ young lady.”

 

“At least they’re still co-operating … for now,” April muttered, “but I wouldn’t blame them if they don’t for much longer, if _Starfleet_ doesn’t get its head out of its ass!”

 

“We got our information from Captain Singh of the _USS Aembr’Tem_ and Captain H’sraka of the  _USS Valiant_ ,” Nechayev continued, eyeing them suspiciously, “who got it from their own sources closer to the front or from ships just returning, given that both left here only two days ago.”

 

“You’re right, captains,” Picard continued quietly. “Because of Captain Georgiou’s actions, starting _eleven_ days ago, the Klingons are crying _atrocity_ —her numbers were so staggering and her tactics were so daring, that the Admiralty has decided to launch an _investigation_ into those actions in Klingon space.”

 

“Pippa _never_ does any job by halves,” Katrina said with a soft, fond laugh. “The Admiralty gave her a job to do— _to break the Klingon cloak_. She asked for the best crew with which to do it, we gave them to her, and as you noted, she did a _fucking spectacular_ _job_ ; then she brought them _all_ home again eight days ago—a little banged up, but all safe and sound—all except for herself and one other.”

 

“Well, I don’t get why Starfleet would release that recording then, ma’am, if you were going to court martial Captain Georgiou,” Nechayev blazed. “Why ask us here to _discuss_ this at all?”

 

“Because _they’re_ not the ones interested in court martialing Georgiou, Adele,” Archer said, his eyes hard and shrewd. “ _They_ released the recording—they’re the ones trying to _stop_ the court martial, because Georgiou can’t defend herself.”

 

“Yes,” April rumbled, “and we’d like your help.”

 

“Of course, Commodore,” Archer replied with his next breath, which Nachayev immediately echoed.

 

“Whatever you need,” the young woman added.

 

“Our plans are a bit … _nebulous_ right now,” April laughed hollowly, “seeing that we were caught a bit flatfooted when the _shit_ hit the fan. Not even we, Philippa’s strongest supporters, expected such spectacular results. But the first thing we need is to get both your ships spaceworthy, and your crews sorted and up to speed with _Discovery’s_ innovations ASAP.”

 

“As for that recording,” Picard said frowning at April. “Given that we were caught so _flatfooted_ , I’m ashamed to say that it got out without my knowledge, my consent, or my being able to do a _damned thing_ about it. I’m afraid that was our favourite cadet.”

 

Katrina chuckled as the two captains regarded them in shock. “This was your _“seriously scary young lady”_ six days ago,” she said bringing up a hologram of a weepy, shaky cadet, obviously looking at something on a PADD, while standing at an access umbilical at the San Francisco Fleet Yard, where her ship was docked to the shipyard’s command and control station.

 

_A familiar figure entered the access corridor; Cadet Tilly took a deep breath and snapped to attention._

_“I’m sorry, sir, access to this ship is restricted,” she said hoarsely, but professionally. “If you would give me your name sir, and the name of the_ Discovery  _crew member you would like to visit with, I can ask them to come to the dock and have their visit with you on the station, sir.”_

_“I am Captain Matthew Decker of the_ USS Constitution _, Cadet—”_

_“Tilly, sir; Cadet Sylvia Tilly,” she replied after a beat, in which she got her mouth closed and her obvious awe of the famous young captain under control. “H-how may I help you, sir.”_

_“I wanted to pay my respects to Captain Georgiou, Cadet Tilly,” Decker replied smiling. “She’s an old friend and mentor—”_

_Tilly’s expressive face crumbled, as she burst out bawling as freely and honestly as a child, and threw her arms around a startled Matt Decker, who caught her awkwardly—obviously unsure of how to comfort her._

_After a few moments, she pulled back in mortification. “S-sorry sir … I-I …” Her eyes welled up again and she turned away, head bowed. “Sorry sir, C-Captain Georgiou is indisposed at this time. Perhaps you would like me to connect you to Acting Captain Saru? But if you need any further information, you would need to contact Commodore Paris or Admiral Cornwell.”_

_“No, I won’t bother Acting Captain Saru at this time,” Decker said softly as he regarded the trembling girl. “I take it Captain Georgiou has been injured?”_

_She nodded, then husked, “Yes sir.”_

_“Badly?”_

_She nodded again, sniffling as she looked down at the PADD in her hands again._

_“I’m very sorry to hear that, Cadet Tilly.”_

_“Thank you, sir.”_

_Decker regarded her sadly for a few moments more. “Well, I won’t bother you anymore for tonight then, Cadet Tilly. I hope Captain Georgiou recovers soon.”_

_“Thank you, sir; I will add your kind thoughts to her card.”_

_“Thank you, Ms Tilly,” he said and started to walk away._

_“She’s great, you know,” the girl said quietly, turning to regard him with tear-streaked face and sad blue eyes. “She did great things, and she made us great—made us aspire to_ great  _things,” she said, spine stiffening and pulling herself up proudly to attention again. “She took a science vessel into war and made us all warriors—and we did great things … and we did_ terrible  _things together. But she made sure we always knew why we were fighting; she told us to attend to our stations for our victory, but to look to our_ crewmates _for our purpose! So, when you hear about the things we did out there, sir, please remember that the_ Klingons  _started this war and we had_ no choice  _but to fight back, because that was all they understood. They started this war and took over_ 75,000 lives  _because they could … because as long as they were behind their_ cloaks _, we couldn’t touch them, and they thought they could just_ take whatever they wanted  _… because—”_

_Her quiet voice faltered, but Philippa’s strong voice was unmistakeable in the silence; Captain Matthew Decker gaped with absolute shock._

_“… our enemy wanted this war—to unite their Houses … to glorify their so-called messiah … to show our galactic community their strength and their_ honour _—to earn an_ honourable death  _and their place in Sto-vo-kor! They have_ denigrated  _the United Federation of Planets, all our peoples and all we have built … denigrated_ us  _as weak and homogenized, because we strove for_ peace!

_“But_ we  _know the_ truth _; war is not about glory … it is not really even about honour. There are rarely honourable deaths in war, only_ blood  _and_ guts  _and_ screams _, even when there is no one there to witness it—_ especially  _when there is no one to witness it. It isn’t weakness to strive for peace … peace takes_ strength _, and yes, peace takes_ blood  _and_ guts  _and_ screams _…”_

_“What is that, cadet?” Decker asked gently, walking back towards her again._

_“That is my captain, sir, before she took us to war,” she croaked._

_“May I view it, cadet?”_

_She nodded and handed the PADD to him. Matt Decker viewed the full recording with awe and tears in his eyes._

_“May I have a copy, Cadet Tilly?” he requested quietly. She nodded again and dried her eyes as he typed a couple of commands into the PADD, then handed it back to her. “I would like to show this to my crew, to inspire them; we ship out immediately after our emergency upgrades. I take it Captain Georgiou and the crew of the_ Discovery  _are the source of the new cloak detection system, subspace radio jammers, weapons and tactics?”_

_“I’m afraid that can’t answer that, sir,” she replied hoarsely. “It’s classified.”_

_His eyes widened in shock again—and then he smiled. “Understood, cadet.”_

_Holding his hand out to her, they shook hands professionally, before he clasped her smaller hand warmly between his. “Thank you, Cadet Tilly,” he said with formal respect, “I will remember, and I will keep Captain Georgiou in my heart and in my thoughts. I hope she makes it through this ordeal.”_

_“Thank you, sir,” she replied as he stepped back, came to attention and saluted her. She came to attention proudly and snapped a perfect salute in reply._

 

#


	5. Interlude

_There's got to be a way that I can dream_

_Simply close my eyes and see_

_The worlds I've never known_

_What places that my soul has been_

 

The sweet voice is soft, as if beckoning from a great distance. Both Philippa and Michael come to consciousness abruptly, as if a switch had been thrown.

 

“Do you hear that?” Philippa husks, sitting up and scanning the white expanse around them.

 

_Sometimes I need to run away and hide_

_And soar above the clouds and ride_

_I sail along so high_

_Till nothing's in my sky_

_Except the stars that fill my eyes_

 

“Yes, someone’s singing,” Michael replies absently; she is glad to see the hope again in Philippa’s dark eyes.

 

_And I will live for love_

_Where ever it may lead_

_It's written from the start_

_I know it's face by heart_

_I will live for love_

 

“Donna Summer,” Philippa says grinning broadly at her.

 

“You know this person?” Michael gapes in shock.

 

_I'm searching for the one who holds the key_

_To all this crazy life I lead_

_Through galaxies in time_

_A solitary star that shines_

 

Philippa laughs, bright and delighted. “Misspent youth,” she says lightly, but Michael has a powerful flash; a memory of sixteen-year-old Philippa, exhausted and curled in an armchair in a corner of a room, her eyes glued determinedly to a PADD of the singer’s performances, as she croons about love. Around Philippa, people offer condolences on the deaths of her family—as they had been for the last four hours—to her father’s brother, an uncle she has met only three times in her life.

 

And _this_ song has great meaning for her: _Ibu, Bapa, Adik Lelaki; Saya akan hidup untuk cinta_. _Mother, Father, Little Brother; I will live for love_.

 

“The original singer was Donna Summer, a popular chanteuse way back in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. You should ask Bryce sometime—her work is still considered classic dance music.”

 

_Sometimes I need to close my eyes and breathe_

_Inhale what life's been given me_

_A passion to ignite_

_A flaming heart a' flight_

_I close my eyes_

_I breathe_

_I'm free_

 

Philippa finally looks down at herself, realising that she is clothed in the light grey Vulcan robe she’d worn three years ago when Michael had invited her captain to visit her home in Shi’Kahr. She looks up and smiles, reaching out to gently finger the white linen of Michael’s robe.

 

“It seems that our subconscious is at work here,” she says at last, withdrawing her hand, and Michael gives her a puzzled frown. “Alone, we are naked with each other,” Philippa clarifies. “But with a hint of someone else present, we’re automatically clothed.”

 

_And I will live for love_

_Where ever it may lead_

_It's written from the start_

_I know it's face by heart_

_I will live for love_

 

“I guess that means we _want_ to be naked with each other,” Michael teases and Philippa laughs again; she takes Michael’s hand and kisses it gently. A burst of raw emotion … raw _love_ threatens to overwhelm Michael.

 

“Every day and in all ways,” Philippa murmurs lovingly.  “Come, let’s go find this singer. Her voice sounds _very_ young.”

 

_The poet must have known_

_A lover of his own_

_'Cause that is when he wrote_

_Everything I felt for love_

 

They rise and begin walking straight ahead; Michael is loathed to lose contact with her lover and tucks Philippa’s hand into the crook of her elbow. Philippa smiles knowingly at her.

 

“You won’t lose me, Michael,” she says gently, but does not remove her hand. “We are here together; we will forge ahead _together_.”

 

_And I will fight for love in life and life in love_

_And I will hold to things above_

_I'm strong enough to slay the dragon dead and there_

 

Michael nods her acceptance and suddenly a vista opens before them; it is an enchanted landscape bathed in light, with tall, glowing plant-like growths swaying, and motes of spores swirling, as if on a gentle breeze that Michael cannot feel. The mycelial forest gives way to a beach, the sand is glasslike and sparkling with spore energy, leading to an expanse of glowing water, gentle waves lapping the shore.

 

_I will live for love_

_I'm taller than the sky_

_This dream will never die_

_So only know that I_

_I will live for love_

A young Human girl stands before them, swaying in time with the spores and the mycelial growths; or perhaps _they_ are moving in time with her. She is dark-skinned like Michael, but no more than fifteen or sixteen-years old. She is beautiful and luminous as she gestures expansively to the ocean, reflecting a sky jewelled with stars and spores, and then to them, like a performer on a stage.

 

_The poet must have known_

_A lover of his own_

_'Cause that is when he wrote_

_Everything I felt for love_

_I will ever fight_

_I will live for life_

_I will live for love!_

 

She holds the last note for an impossible length of time; her smile is both beatific and triumphant when she finally finishes and curtsies to her audience.

 

“Bravo! Bravo! That was beautiful! Absolutely wonderful!” Philippa enthuses, clapping vigorously; Michael follows suit and applauds also.

 

The girl startles; her eyes are wide and frightened, and she gapes at them as if seeing them for the first time.

 

 _“Oh!”_ she breathes. _“You’re real!”_ And disappears in a swirl of mycelial spores and energy.

 

“Okay … _please_ tell me that just happened,” Philippa deadpans, staring in astonishment at the spot from which the girl has vanished.

 

Michael is no less gobsmacked; she closes her mouth with an audible snap. “If you mean that a young girl apparently just teleported— _at will_ —away from us, then yes, that _indeed_ just happened,” she replies. “Furthermore, I don’t think that she realised we were here until you spoke.”

 

“What do you mean?” Philippa asks in confusion. “We were standing right in front of her well before she finished the song.”

 

“Considering the nature of the mycelial plane,” Michael says slowly, as she orders her thoughts, “it appears to be as much a mental place—a place of pure consciousness and thought—as it is a physical place. We are clothed because we _want_ to be clothed when interacting or potentially interacting with other people. Until we attempted to interact with her, I don’t think that girl realised we were actually real people, so it might be that her mind usually provides her with an audience when she performs and she thought we were figments of her imagination. But this is all purely conjecture on my part.”

 

“Your _conjecture_ usually tends to be right on the money, love,” Philippa replies thoughtfully. “So, assuming you’re correct, how do we know what is real and what is not in this place?”

 

“And as an old friend once said to me, _‘that is the sixty-four thousand-dollar question’_ , isn’t it?” A new voice comes from behind them, and they whirl to face a small, trim, white-haired woman, holding the hands of two blonde-haired children; a girl of about nine or ten years old, and a boy a little younger—perhaps about eight.

 

The first thing Michael notices is that—unlike the disappearing teenaged girl—they do not glow with mycelial energy.

 

The woman’s chuckles are warm and throaty; her lively blue eyes twinkle merrily. “Although, _why_ ‘sixty-four thousand dollars’ is something I never thought to ask him—it’s a rather odd number, isn’t it?”

 

The children look up at her in askance; a silent communication passes between the three.

 

“All right, off you go,” she says with loving exasperation; her voice is a low, husky soprano. “But take care with young Henry; he’s still in a very fragile place.” Both nod and disappear in flashes of light, to Michael’s and Philippa’s astonishment again. “And use your words!” she shouts; soft, mischievous giggles float back to them, as if carried on the wind.

 

“Is teleportation the usual mode of travel here?” Michael blurts out to her own consternation. Philippa gently pats her hand, radiating reassurance; she wants to know the answer to that question as well.

 

The woman nods with a quiet hum. “It’s more that it is the instinctual mode of travel here,” she replies. “Most of the people trapped here arrive by using teleportation in one form or another. In exchange for your lives and the lives of your crew, your _penance_ , Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham, will be to guide them safely off the mycelial plane—as you call it.”

 

“You know us,” Philippa observes quietly. “Are you the Guardian of this place then?”

 

She chuckles and shakes her head. “No, merely the mortal Human godmother for a pair of young gods, whose playground is all of time and space, omnicordial universes and quantum realities.”

 

Philippa and Michael cannot hide their shock, and scramble to follow as the woman takes off at a brisk pace, heading into the mycelial forest.

 

“I was asked by the Guardian to be _your_ Guide,” she says as they catch up, “and the children were eager to visit a favoured playmate trapped here. Look up,” she orders and they comply, gaping with awe at the glowing figure sitting on top the massive head of a softly-glowing _blue whale_ that hovers a few metres above them.

 

The whale’s song fills Michael’s entire being, its pressure stretches her to bursting as she becomes conscious of it; and she struggles in the tides of the low, almost subsonic melody that threatens to drown her in its undertow. And as it pulls her down, she finds Philippa, at last, and slips into her love’s waiting embrace

 

 _“This_ is the Guardian.”

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used Google Translate for the Malay words in this chapter. Please let me know if I've made any mistakes in spelling, grammar or syntax. Thank you!
> 
> It is pretty obvious in the story, but here they are anyway.
> 
> Ibu - Mother  
> Bapa - Father  
> Adik Lelaki - Little Brother; 
> 
> Saya akan hidup untuk cinta - I will live for love
> 
> The song quoted is Donna Summer's "Dream-A-Lot's Theme (I Will Live for Love)" (2003).
> 
> Thank you to Diz for correcting my Malay translation for "Little Brother". I'm not sure how I got the wrong translation from Google Translate. Kudos to you Diz!


	6. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, so I thought I'd do something productive with my insomnia and get some editing done - it's been a hectic last two weeks at work, so there hasn't been much time to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter; it gets quite heavy in places. 
> 
> And as always, please let me know if I've FUBARed anything ... which at 3:00 in the morning is entirely possible! LOL!!!

“Decker showed Philippa’s speech to his crew, with predictable results,” Katrina said to the stunned captains. “He also gave copies of it to three captains of his acquaintance—whom he met on their way to pay their respects to Captain Georgiou as the senior ship’s captain on station—and they shared it with their crews, as their ships also underwent emergency repairs and refits.”

 

“ _Christ_ , that was a _cadet_?” Archer croaked in disbelief.

 

“And that’s why Cadet Tilly is being court martialled?” Nechayev asked, her outrage evident. “It seems rather extreme for the innocent release of a captain’s motivational speech to her crew, given the footage you have. And _Decker_ is the one who _intentionally_ spread it.”

 

“Oh no, captain,” Farzaneh replied with a grin. “ _That_ was the Cadet Tilly from six days ago; the one that’s being court martialled is the Cadet Tilly from _four days ago_. She is accused of assaulting three superior officers and a squad of Starfleet security personnel, who boarded _Discovery_ with the intention removing Captain Georgiou and a civilian science specialist from the ship, under orders from the Admiralty, and _against_ the advice of _Discovery’s_ chief medical officer. In fact, they stunned Dr. Culber to get him out of the way, and _that’s_ when a rather _pissed-off_ Cadet Tilly took them all down _single-handedly_.”

 

 _“What?”_ Nechayev gasped in bewilderment as the senior officers chuckled at her and Archer’s disbelief. “Ma’am, sirs—seriously, you expect us to believe that … that _girl_ took down a _trained_ security squad?”

 

Katrina laughed and activated the holo-viewer again, this time showing _Discovery’s_ engineering section housing the experimental displacement-activated spore hub drive came into view.

 

 _Cadet Tilly was working on a small device, while chattering loudly to someone about a_ “cute and yummy ensign”  _and_ “how charming and perfectly adorable he’s been since we danced at the party”  _and how much she was_ “seriously considering jumping his bones, if he doesn’t get a move on it” _; there was soft music playing in the background, a symphony of moans, wordless vocalisations and soft susurrations like the wind playing over the ocean’s waves._

_Tilly’s long, curly red hair haloed her sweet, innocent face, and she swayed in time with the music as she adjusted the instrument in her hands._

_The transparent spore drive cube was surrounded by opaque white fabric screens on all sides, which were shorter than the height of the walls, and above which two people’s heads could clearly be seen. One was Philippa Georgiou and the other—_

 

“Admiral Cornwell,” Nechayev grated out. “What is _Michael Burnham_ —the woman _responsible_ for starting this _war_ —doing on that _ship?_ ”

 

“ _Ending_ the war that she so desperately tried to _prevent_ a year ago, Captain Nechayev,” Katrina replied; there was unmistakeable battle-grade tritanium in her voice. She paused the holographic playback, Philippa’s and Michael’s faces clearly visible—Michael’s slightly above Philippa’s, frozen as they looked deeply … _lovingly_ into each other’s eyes.

 

“The cloak detection system, Adele,” Archer said hoarsely, realisation plain on his face. “Burnham is a quantum physicist … she won the _most_ prestigious award at the Vulcan Science Academy for her work before joining Starfleet—the only non-Vulcan to do so. _She_ developed it, didn’t she, admiral; the way to scan for cloaked ships?”

 

“Yes, Captain Archer, that she certainly did,” Katrina confirmed.

 

“Six months ago, two proposals were submitted to the Admiralty to have Michael Burnham released from prison,” Farzaneh explained. “Both independently observed that a vast intellect, like Ms Burnham’s, should not be wasted rotting in prison, so why not rehabilitate her to serve Starfleet and the Federation again, if we could.”

 

“With all due respect, Captain Georgiou is hardly an _objective_ observer, Commodore Paris,” Nechayev said mulishly.

 

“No, she is not, captain,” Farzaneh replied coolly, disappointed in the younger woman’s inability to see past Starfleet’s _propaganda_ blaming Burnham for the war. “And while Captain Georgiou supported both proposals, she was not the author of either; Captain Gabriel Lorca was the author of the one the Admiralty eventually chose—to conscript Ms Burnham to serve Starfleet again onboard a science vessel where her undeniable skills could be put to good use. Lorca, quite rightly, pointed out that leaving an _intellectual asset_ like Michael Burnham to rot in prison, simply because Starfleet needed a _scapegoat_ for its propaganda, was not only colossally _stupid_ , but absolutely _criminal_ , given how badly we were losing almost _every_ engagement with the Klingons because of those blasted cloaks!”

 

“And as Captain Georgiou pointed out, both at Ms Burnham’s court martial and in her speech,” April continued angrily, “And what _Starfleet_ and the _entire Federation_ seem to have _forgotten_ , is that _T’Kuvma wanted this war_ , to cement himself as the _fucking_ Klingon messiah and unite their warring Houses—keep them from falling into anarchy and destroying _themselves_.”

 

“So, Burnham is to be _forgiven_ , just like that.” Nechayev’s voice was low and bitter. “Is her _assault_ on Captain Georgiou … her attempted _takeover_ of the _Shenzhou_ … her _mutiny_ to be swept under the rug and _forgotten_ too? To be _forgiven_ , just like that?”

 

“Do you know how Michael Burnham lost her birth parents, captain?” Katrina asked in that deceptively quiet voice Farzaneh knew was often a prelude to some hard truths being dragged _kicking and screaming_ into the light of day.

 

#

 

 _“Owen is_ dead _, Zana; accept it and move on with your_ damned  _life … take off those metaphorical_ widow’s weeds  _you’ve cocooned yourself in! While he may have been a good father at the beginning—in as far as it went—he definitely wasn’t at the end, and he was a_ lousy husband  _those last years. You haven’t had a real marriage for_ years  _and he wasn’t the_ fucking saint  _you’ve made him out to be for your kids. You need to deal with the fact that Lieutenant Commander Greaves’ kids are_ his children _, and you’re not doing yourself or your boys any favours by keeping this information from them—or the fact that his_ tomcatting  _has probably left any number of other little Owens and Rowenas in half the ports across the Federation that the_ Victory  _has pulled into over the years. Your boys are growing up, so you need to tell them_ before  _they go out there and find out for themselves, or worse, make a mistake of the_ biblical  _kind!”_

 

That had been over eight years ago, yet Farzaneh still remembered it as if it were just a few hours ago. Her boys were young men now—Thomas, at twenty-five, was a rising young lawyer, which Owen would have absolutely  _hated_ , with a wife and newborn son, while Augin was a twenty-year-old cadet still at the Academy—and she was glad she had followed Katrina’s advice back then and told them about Lieutenant Commander Mara Greaves and her three-year-old twins. It turned out that a then seventeen-year-old Thomas had already known about his father’s infidelity for more than a year at that point.

 

_“It was such a stupid lie, Mom,” Thomas had explained, when asked how he’d known._

 

The previous year, Owen had failed to show up for a scheduled visit, while _Victory_ was at the Proxima Centauri Maintenance Yard—just a few hours from Earth even by the slowest transport available—for a scheduled overhaul and repairs; the crew had been granted a ten-day liberty.

 

After they’d waited for almost an hour at the Fleet transport hub, Thomas had taken it upon himself to simply chat up one of _Victory’s_ returning ensigns, while Farzaneh had taken a heartbroken Augin for ice-cream; it was one of the last times such a hurt could be so simply assuaged for her youngest.

 

 _“Overseeing ship repairs,” Thomas had said, far too bitterly for one so young. “That was such_ bullshit _, Mom, it was impossible_ not  _to know! He didn’t even think enough of us—_ his family _—to call and say he wasn’t coming or ask us to meet him at Proxima. He didn’t care how much he’d hurt Augie or you, and he was_ annoyed  _at you—_ his wife _—for calling him … I’m glad you told him off and that you started divorce proceedings. I love my father, but that he died before the divorce was complete isn’t your fault, Mom—_ he  _was the one who dragged his feet over its finalisation. Nor is it your fault that he didn’t make provisions for Lieutenant Commander Greaves and her kids. It seems to me that these last years,_ all  _he cared about were his lover and her kids!_ _Look how long it took him to get home when Augie was sick because he was too busy playing_ Happy Families  _with them! And he had more than_ three years  _to make proper arrangements for them … to not be a_ coward  _and tell you he’d found someone else—_ tell us  _it was over—so forgive me if I don’t see his_ mess  _as our_ problem _,” he’d ranted angrily._

_“According to Ensign Pressman,_ “his kids are so super cute” _, but he’d thought they were older! And_ “his wife is so gorgeous” _, but again, he’d thought that_ “Lieutenant Commander Paris”  _was a Captain and older; dumber than a bag of hammers that one. Seriously, what_ are _you teaching them at the Academy, Mom? If that’s the kind of genius of critical thinking you’re churning out, I_ fear  _for the future of Starfleet and the Federation.”_

 

_“You’ve been spending way too much time with your Aunt Kat!” she’d groused and he had laughed._

_“And you’ve been spending way too little time with her! And when was the last time you spoke with Captain Pippa? I can take care of Augie for a few hours; he probably wants to talk with me anyway, but won’t in front of you, and afterward, I’ll take him to watch the Parrises Squares match this afternoon or we’ll go hover-sledding—I promise to be careful with him. Why don’t you go and really take some time for yourself … go have fun with Aunt Kat?”_

_And so, she had taken Katrina up on one of her spa days, and they had called to catch up with Philippa, who had enthused about Sarek’s ward, a young Vulcan-raised_ Human _woman that the ambassador had persuaded her to take on as a protégée; and she was looking forward to the challenge!_

 

#

 

“Burnham’s parents died in a Klingon terror raid on the Doctari Alpha Research Outpost.” Nechayev parroted Starfleet’s party line, jolting Farzaneh from her momentary lapse; the young captain was obviously annoyed with Katrina’s question. “It’s a matter of public record and was part of her advocate’s attempt to _defend_ her actions in the _mutiny_.”

 

“No, captain, Michael Burnham’s parents did not _die_ in a Klingon terror raid on the Doctari Alpha Research Outpost,” Katrina said almost gently, forestalling the woman’s protest with a simple hand gesture. “The Klingon _attack_ came just as the Burnhams were getting ready for dinner; they had no time to do anything but _hide_ their barely _nine-year-old daughter_ in a cabinet and make her promise to be silent no matter what happened.

 

“ _Philippa Georgiou_ was not the first person that Michael Burnham saw dangling from a Klingon blade, Captain Nechayev,” she said to the shocked woman, her voice hard and unyielding. “Dr. Michael Burnham tried to defend his family, but all he could reach before they _invaded his home_ was a kitchen knife. He tried to barricade the door, but they stormed in anyway. The Klingons broke his blade, _laughed_ at his inept fighting skills, and at his _weakness_ , when he showed _horror_ for what they were doing to his _wife_ right there _in front of him_ —because he was unable to stop them—and his understandable _terror_ of what they would do to his _little girl_ if they found her.

 

“They _laughed_ at him, captains, while they gutted him and watched him die, but that was a _mercy_ compared to _what they took their time doing to Dr. Siobhan Burnham_ , and _what_ their comrades _took their time doing_ _to other_ _women_ on that outpost … _what Klingons have been doing during this fucking war_ , on Federation worlds or installations that they don’t simply _carpet bomb_ from orbit. And that _little girl_ had to watch them _violate her mother and keep silent_. When they were done with her, they killed Siobhan and then sat down at the _Burnhams’ table and ate their dinner_ , while their _child_ had to sit in a cabinet, not two metres away—and watch those _bastards_ eat and drink and brag about their conquests— _and keep silent_. But she certainly was _not_ _silent_ when Sarek and the Vulcan first responders found her hours later, sitting in her parents’ blood and holding their cold bodies, _screaming for her Mama and Daddy to wake up_.”

 

The silence was a palpable entity in the room with them.

 

“So, _no_ , Captain Nechayev,” Katrina said raggedly, breaking that silence at last, holding the younger woman’s tearful gaze. “It is not to be simply _forgiven_ _and forgotten_ , but what it _ought_ to have been from the beginning—which is _understood_ for what it was; Michael Burnham’s _desperation_ to save everything she’d come to love … _everyone_ she’d come to love. _She_ was no longer that _silent little girl_ in that cabinet— _she_ could do something to save those she loved … _she_ could make her voice be heard … and _she_ could act!

 

“Was it the right thing to do? Would she have spared us this war had she been able to complete her mutiny? If Philippa had not recovered from that incapacitating nerve pinch in time to stop her? I don’t know—I doubt it, given that _any_ _excuse for war_ was exactly what _T’Kuvma_ had wanted, and I believe that any action _Shenzhou_ could have taken, either ordered by Michael _or_ Philippa, would have been used by the Klingons as _provocation_ for war. But I’m _ashamed_ to say that _Starfleet and the Admiralty_ never looked for any deeper understanding of Michael’s actions; we were too busy making a _scapegoat_ of her and she was too broken to even _defend_ herself. And by the time Philippa woke from her coma, the court martial was effectively over, and there was nothing she could do to help Michael. All she could do was to make a plea for leniency, then throw herself into her rehabilitation, before throwing herself back into that meat-grinding _war_ in order to find a way to end it.”

 

Farzaneh brought up Michael Burnham’s service file on her PADD and synchronised it with the holo-projector.

 

“And you are _wrong_ about Ms Burnham being a quantum physicist, Captain Archer,” she said; he looked at her in confusion as she highlighted Burnham’s areas of speciality. “Ms Burnham is a xenoanthropologist with a _degree_ in quantum physics. While her thesis on the _‘Comparative Xenoanthropology, Sociobiology and Ethology of Four Humanoid Warrior Species’_ or her last paper, _‘Homologous, Analogous and Convergent Aspects of Socio-Cultural Xenoanthropology in Humanoid Behaviours’_ may not be as famous as her dissertation on _‘Quantum Mapping of Omnicordial Intersects Through Subspace’_ , she was—and remains—well respected in her field and is considered, in xenoanthropological circles, one of the Federation’s rising young minds.”

 

“Then why study quantum physics at all?” Nechayev asked, confusion evident. “Seriously—could she have found two more _disparate_ fields to study?”

 

A small, sad smile graced Katrina’s face, when she replied, “As Philippa once told me, _‘for Michael, studying quantum physics was simply a means to an end, as she’d hoped it would win her a place on the Vulcan Expeditionary Group, so she could explore her true passion—xenoanthropology.’_ She also has a talent and aptitude for quantum physics and theoretical mathematics, in which she has _pioneered_ quite a few, entirely _new_ , fields of study … all before she was even twenty-five! That is part of what was so extraordinary about her work that the Vulcans took the unprecedented step of giving such a young—and not to mention _Human_ —woman such a prestigious award. The Daystrom Institute was the other group that put forward a proposal to have her released from prison, and be allowed to join their Think Tank, as they also considered it a greater crime to allow her mind to go to waste. To give you some further perspective, captains, Ms Burnham developed that cloak detection system, from _scratch_ , in less than the month and a half that she has had to study the data—as of today, she’s only been on _Discovery_ for _fifty-three_ days.”

 

 _“A month and a half?”_ Nechayev said hoarsely in disbelief.

 

“Difficult to wrap your mind around, isn’t it?” Farzaneh said gently and the younger woman nodded wordlessly. “I’m just glad we didn’t completely _break_ her, not only with her imprisonment, but with the way she was treated by Starfleet—the way she’s _still_ being treated by _Starfleet!_ ”

 

“They’re in love, aren’t they—Captain Georgiou and Ms Burnham?” Archer husked and Katrina laughed heartily now, breaking the somber atmosphere as laughter rippled around the table.

 

“Yes, they are,” she replied with a fond smile, and then in the next breath, “and I hope to God, _you two_ save us from having to deal with another pair of _lovesick idiots_ like those two!”

 

 _“Admiral?”_ Nechayev yelped and then her face darkened. “Our private life is _none_ of your business, Admiral Cornwell!”

 

Katrina chuckled and took a sip of her tea. “Yeah, yeah, my point exactly,” she retorted. “So, tell each other you love one another, if you haven’t done so already, and then go and have some hot sex—or cold sex if that’s your preference,” she said, waggling her eyebrows at the two increasingly uncomfortable and red-faced captains. “Then get married, raise babies, have kittens or whatever the _hell_ you want to do with each other. But please _stop_ hiding behind regulations or fraternization protocols or whatever have you. You’re of equal rank, not in the same command, so disclose your relationship to Personnel, which is still our dear Commodore Paris for the moment, and whoever your flag officer turns out to be—”

 

“That would probably be me, once we shuffle the deck,” April said laughing as he raised his hand.

 

“Of course, it would be you, Bob,” she muttered and he blew her a kiss. “At least your better half had the guts to stop the pining and drag your sorry ass to the altar eventually.” She returned her gaze to Archer and Nechayev. “All I’m saying is just get on with it, captains; even if you don’t want to make any formal commitments yet and you want to wait to see if you both survive. Because we’ll be taking you both to _war_ a hell of a lot sooner than you can imagine, and _nothing_ in this life is guaranteed—just look at my two _idiots_ over there,” she said nodding to the frozen hologram. “At least, on that last day, Burnham had the perceptiveness to realise, _“Shit! Klingons! Gotta save my Philippa, no matter what!”_ So, she tried to give them a _“Vulcan Hello”_ complete with a photon torpedo enema—”

 

Farzaneh could not help the burst of side-splitting laughter at the ridiculous image it evoked, and she wasn’t alone in her descent into hilarity.

 

 _“Goddamn you, Katrina!”_ she gasped, tears in her eyes.

 

“And Philippa,” Katrina sighed, gazing at their friend’s image so sadly now, it sobered Farzaneh immediately. “Our dear, sweet, _kick-ass_ Pippa hadn’t the sense to admit to herself that she was in love with her first officer—not until she was _hanging_ there on T’Kuvma’s blade, drowning in her own blood, right before Burnham shot his _messianic ass_ and sent him straight to _Gre’thor!_ So please, do us all a favour and don’t wait until one or both of you are on your deathbeds to re-enact some _bloody operatic drama_ ; because I _fucking hate_ opera, even more than I _hate_ drama!”

 

“Indeed, she does, captains,” Farzaneh said quietly now as she held their gazes. “She hates to cry.”

 

Archer nodded, more relaxed now, while Nachayev still held herself rigidly, but Farzaneh saw a measure of relief in her blue eyes. She silently thanked Kat and her blunt, no-nonsense way of handling fraternisation issues.

 

“And Cadet Tilly? The courts martial?” Archer asked.

 

Katrina laughed again, eyes sparkling, banishing sadness for the moment. “Oh, our Cadet Tilly is pure comedy _gold_ , captain!” she declared.

 

“While the courts martial will be pure _farce_ , if we have anything to say about it,” Picard added tiredly.

 

“They are farce now, Louis-Georges,” Irailo laughed, “but with your help, captains, we are hoping to produce a bit of theatre on par with some sublime mud-wrestling entertainment Kat and Zana once took me to—we really should go back one day, my dears,” she purred as the two captains relaxed enough to finally laugh.

 

“Just let me know when you’re free, love,” Katrina chuckled before turning her attention back to the meeting and activating the hologram once again. “But this is what happened when Starfleet Security tried to take Cadet Tilly’s captain and her best friend off her ship.”

 

#

 


	7. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to get this up yesterday, but I'm battling a cold, and was too hopped up on NyQuil! LOL!!! It's rather short, but hopefully still enjoyable.

The dapper young man in medical whites—Dr. Hugh Culber—ran in ahead of the squad as they entered engineering, trying to explain the potential _brain damage_ they could do to Philippa and Michael if they tried to remove them from the spore drive cube, even if they could get it open.

 

_“It is my belief that the captain’s and Specialist Burnham’s consciousness are currently rather dissociated, sir, and if you remove them, you could cause irreparable brain damage and we may never be able to reintegrate them!” Culber shouted desperately, as he tried to get between the team and his patients._

_“Jenkins, set the charges on the door, and will_ somebody  _shut him up!” the lead officer—a Starfleet commander—ordered; one woman raised her phaser and stunned the bewildered doctor, who hit his head hard on the deck as he went down. A security man started towards the drive cube, unslinging a bag from his back._

_Tilly, who had been standing—stunned—near the station she’d been working at, ran over and interposed herself between the squad and the drive cube; her hands were held up as if to physically hold them back._

_“Stop! What the_ fucking  _hell? You just_ shot  _our doctor!” she screamed in outrage, words pouring forth in a rush._

_The same security woman raised her phaser and ruthlessly shot her as well. Incredibly,_ a force field  _flared between her and Tilly’s body, deflecting the shot back at the woman, who crumpled where she’d stood, then lay twitching on the deck. Tilly’s eyes went wide and round, and then she gave a little shout of unadulterated_ glee _—that is, until a second security person tried to shoot her again, this time from point-blank range, with predictable results. Her hand darted out and snatched his phaser from his hand as he fell to the deck, twitching even harder at her feet._

“Seriously?”  _she growled dangerously, looking nothing like the bubbly cadet who’d just been giggling about jumping her cute ensign only a few minutes ago; her loose red hair seemed wilder now, like a living entity curling about her head and moving of its own volition. The more prudent members of the security team stopped and backed up warily._

_“What the_ fucking fuck!  _What kind of_ shit for brains  _sees what happened when his partner shot me, and thinks …_ “Huh, let me pull the same dumbass shit, but get even closer!”  _I should leave you to twitch your_ stupid ass  _into a seizure, but seeing that you just_ shot  _our doctor, I’d better just put you out of your misery,” she ranted to the now terrified, twitching man, just before she shot him and the security woman in rapid succession. Both gave one massive convulsion and went deathly still._

_“I’ll have your_ head  _for this, cadet! I’ll have you cashiered out of Starfleet for this!” screamed the commander who had ordered Culber shot; his voice got higher and higher with every word. “Do you_ know  _who I am?_ I am Commander Justin Anderton _and I have direct orders from_ the Admiralty  _to take Georgiou and Burnham into custody!”_

_Tilly pivoted and calmly shot Jenkins, who had been inching closer to the drive cube while she’d been distracted with the idiots who’d shot her. He crashed into the screen in front of the cube, and it rolled askew._

_She returned her pissed-off gaze back to Anderton and leveled her phaser at him. “Oh yeah,” she said in a deadly voice. “Well, the name is_ Tilly  _for the record;_ Cadet Sylvia Tilly _. And I don’t give a_ fuck  _who you are, or what_ fucking  _orders you have from the_ Admiralty _. No one shoots_ my doctor _, and_ no one  _is taking_ my captain  _or_ my specialist  _anywhere until said doctor declares that both are_ whole _,_ conscious _,_ happy  _and_ healthy! _” she said, punctuating each adjective with a shot, stunning the last four security personnel; each one looked almost resigned to it as they made no effort to avoid her shots._

_“And that’s_ Captain Georgiou  _and_ Science Specialist Burnham  _to you!” But Anderton and his lieutenants weren’t paying attention to her, but instead they were gawking at the two luminous women holding hands and floating_ naked _—surrounded by the lazily wafting motes of glowing mycelial spores—in the transparent drive cube._

_“Eyes on me assholes!”_

_Tilly shot the deck in front the commander; he jumped back and gave a high, girlish scream, but all three returned their gazes to the deadly-looking young woman as they cowered away from her._

_“You don’t_ get  _to ogle_ my captain and her Lady! _” she growled, grabbing the screen with her free hand and rolling it back into place, while still keeping the phaser trained on them._

_“What—what kind of_ sick sex games  _was_ Georgiou  _indulging in on this ship—”_

_“You know what, I_ was  _going to keep you awake while I called for Commander Landry,” she interrupted with an incongruous and conversational tone, “Because you know … you are officers … and due respect and all that stuff they teach us at the Academy. But you_ clearly  _don’t respect_ my captain _, and you_ certainly  _don’t respect_ me _. And I’m really,_ really  _tired of your_ bullshit  _now … so night, night!” she said with a little wave as they tried to protest and back away while she quickly shot each in turn, leaving the snivelling Commander Anderton for last._

_Lowering her phaser, she walked over to her console and activated the comm. “Cadet Tilly to Commander Landry.”_

_“Good evening, cadet,” Landry’s pleasant voice replied. “How are our ladies tonight?”_

_“They’re good, commander,” she reported. “Dr. Culber says that there’s a two percent increase in non-autonomic brain activity this evening and there has been a subtle change in the music as well, but as usual, he has_ no idea  _what it means. But that’s not why I’m calling, commander,” she said. “We kinda have a problem with a bunch of intruders down here, ma’am.”_

_“Cadet?” The commander’s alarm was palpable in that single word._

_“Yeah … you should check on what the_ hell  _happened to whoever is supposed to be on duty at the dock, ma’am, as well as our security team manning the entry port,” Tilly said angrily. “Some trigger-happy Starfleet commander called Anderton, with a couple of lieutenants and a squad of security types, just barged in here—apparently on_ orders  _from the_ Admiralty  _to take the captain and Michael into custody. He ordered Dr. Culber_ shot _, then tried to have one of his goons_ blow  _the door to the drive cube.”_

_There was the unmistakeable whine of transporters as Commander Landry, Lieutenant Bryce and three security crew materialised in the engineering bay with phasers drawn and ready. She gazed at the crumpled bodies and shook her head before turning her attention to Tilly._

_“You okay?” she asked gently._

_The girl took a shuddering breath and nodded as one of the crewmen moved to check Dr. Culber’s pulse and called sickbay, while Bryce and the other two moved towards the unconscious intruders._

_“Uh huh,” Tilly replied sounding impossibly young now._

_“You want to explain what happened, cadet?” the commander demanded, but her lips were definitely twitching with amusement. “Because just this morning, you barely hit fifteen percent of your targets in our training exercises—and that’s your highest score to date.”_

_The girl blushed, then set her chin as she regarded the security chief. “I got mad, ma’am.”_

_“No kidding!” laughed the dark-skinned lieutenant as he checked Commander Anderton’s vitals._

_“They were going to_ blow the door of the drive cube _, Bryce!” she shouted, visibly upset again. “Even though Dr. Culber_ explained  _that to disturb them could result in_ brain damage  _for the captain and Michael, and that we couldn’t move them because their minds were still on the mycelial plane—dissociated—and then the head guy ordered Dr. Culber_ shot  _just to shut him up, as if he was just an_ annoyance! _And then they_ shot _me!_ Twice!  _So yeah, I got_ mad! _”_

_“They shot you twice?” Landry said in disbelief. “You want to tell me how you managed to stay standing?”_

_Tilly giggled and moved a few steps away from Landry. “Hey Bryce, shoot me!” she laughed doing a little shimmy._

_Bryce looked at the commander, who gestured in bemusement for him to go ahead. He took careful aim, then shot at her—and she shouted,_ “Duck!”  _as his shot came flying back at him; he barely had time to throw himself out of the way, hitting the deck rather hard. The bolt splashed harmlessly on the bulkhead behind him._

_“Tilly, what the hell!” he shouted in outrage as he sat up._

_“You finished Burnham’s personal shield emitter?” Landry said with a wide grin._

_A security team entered on the run with three medical personnel, who immediately got to work on Dr. Culber._

_“Yup!” Tilly giggled, unclipping a small device from the waistband of her uniform pants and holding it out; it was the same device she’d been working on when engineering was invaded. “It inverts, attenuates the phaser’s energy to a different frequency and reflects the shot—it just needed some final adjustments to the attenuator and the emitter array. And I also thought it would be neat to adjust it so that the angle of reflection was close to its original path—use it as a sort of passive weapon; it makes them twitch like crazy,” she burbled over her giggles again._

_“So, you need to hit them with phaser energy to neutralise the attenuation and rectify the neuroleptic shock. But that’s three shots it’s withstood so far and the power cell was only half-charged! It uses the same standard power cell as a phaser—but I’m not exactly sure how it will hold up to disrupter blasts, so if we can get a couple of those to study, that would be great! But there really wasn’t much left for me to do—Michael had already done most of the work, commander.”_

_“Don’t sell yourself short, cadet,” Landry said, obviously impressed, as she accepted the device and turned it over in her hand. “You may not have created it, but you got it to work, refined its parameters and didn’t hesitate to test it under volatile field conditions defending your captain and crewmates. I see that Saru and I will have to amend our report for the captain recommending that you be promoted to Ensign—” Tilly gave her a startled look and Landry laughed. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to_ insist  _on at least Lieutenant Junior Grade!”_

_The girl’s face lit up. “Really?” she squeaked._

_“Really,” Landry assured her._

_“Thanks commander,” Tilly said gratefully and then sighed. “It probably won’t matter though—Commander Anderton said that he’d have me cashiered for shooting up his security people. And then he saw the captain and Michael, since the screen got knocked out of place when I took one of them down, and he started spewing complete_ bullshit  _about the captain indulging in sex games … so I just kinda shot him and the other two, because I was tired of his crap,” she said as her comrades tried and failed to hide their guffaws and outright laughter._

_“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up!” she said in annoyance. “Cadet Silly Tilly strikes again—I don’t know_ how  _these things keep happening to me,” she complained and Landry laughed, putting an arm about her shoulder and giving her a little comforting shake._

_“Because you’re a brave girl,_ Sylvia Tilly _,” the commander replied, her demeanour more serious now. “And they will have to go through all of_ us  _to get to_ you _. It’s almost time for Yeoman M’Kiliss’ shift with our ladies; why don’t you take the Burnham-Tilly personal shield emitter to Commander Airiam and Quartermaster McDougall. Get it logged and scanned, so that production models can be made as quickly as possible for testing, then head off duty until 1300 hours tomorrow—understood?”_

_She smiled wanly and accepted the device back. “Understood commander—you’ll call me if there’s any change?” she said angling her chin at the drive cube._

_“You’ll be the first person I call, cadet,” Landry replied sincerely. “Now, I’ve got to go speak to Saru; we did things the Admiralty’s way and kept the ship available to them—it’s time to do things the_ Discovery  _way, don’t you think?”_

_“Definitely!” Tilly enthused, moving out of the way to allow a medical tech to go past guiding Dr. Culber’s stretcher._

_“All right Bryce, you’re in charge here; get these idiots to sickbay, if they need it, then the brig—and alert Paul that Hugh is sickbay, while I go talk to our acting captain and Commodore Paris about this mess,” Landry ordered and followed Tilly out of engineering._

 

#

 


	8. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late, but I seem to be insomniac these days! Or tonight might have something to do with indigestion from indulging in too much rich food for Thanksgiving! LOL!!!
> 
> Enjoy!

Philippa clutches Michael’s hand tightly as the Guide teleports them into a large, white room; it is, at once, both the most sterile room Michael has ever been in, and the most _organic_. She feels both safe and incredibly vulnerable; Philippa’s fear and awe comes through their bond, in all its heartbreaking clarity, and she is sure her own is as palpable to her lover.

 

The room contains no furniture, devices or ornamentation; even light seems to simply emanate from its walls, and somehow, it pulses with life. Dominating the forward wall, however, is a large panoramic window, through which the mycelial plane spreads out in all its splendour.

 

“Where are we?” Michael whispers in wonder, approaching the window; Philippa follows.

 

“In the belly of the whale, my dear Jonah,” their Guide replies with a chuckle. “The blue whale you saw is simply a projection from her … _companion’s_ mind to provide you with some context; she is a creature of deep space, the stars and the very fabric of the universe, and the Guardian—as you call him—wishes to speak with you. Here, he may interact with you for a short while without damaging your minds.

 

“Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham, I would like you to meet the Guardian of the mycelial plane,” she gestures, with the aplomb of a born ringmaster, to the softly glowing figure that appears before them. He is a tall, thin, pleasant-faced man, whose dark eyes sparkle with the brilliance of a galaxy of stars.

 

“You’re Betazoid!” Philippa gasps, shocked to her core, before she catches her gaffe and bows. “Pardon me— _Cynveld_.” Michael stares at her in surprise.

 

“Yes,” he replies softly. “I was Tam Elbrun, once upon a time.”

 

“Of the First House.”

 

“Yes, Philippa Georgiou, I was … am … will be a son of the First House of Betazed,” he says with a radiant smile and Michael frowns at his enigmatic answer.

 

“From my perspective, Michael Burnham, at the end of my life, I was over one billion years old. From your perspective, I will not be born for nearly a century, on _another_ Betazed, in _another_ United Federation of Planets, in _another_ universe that is a few universes to the _left_ of this yours,” he chuckles softly as he gestures over his shoulder with his left hand. “But I will never be born into _your_ Federation; you, Philippa Georgiou, have changed your universe too much, such that I will never be a possibility there.”

 

Michael gapes; her surprise—at his response to her unasked question—is so complete that she nearly misses Philippa’s reaction. Only in the last moment does she feel her lover try to dam a tsunami of guilt that threatens to drown them both. She turns to Philippa in alarm and finds her love’s face is an expressionless mask that belies the incredible turmoil she senses beneath it.

 

“Peace, my dear Captain Georgiou.” He forestalls her churning guilt with an elegant gesture that seems to reach directly into Philippa, cradling and soothing her turbulent emotions. “You have nothing to feel guilty for, least of all, your continued survival in your universe,” he says with a small chuckle. “After all, would you have your Michael feel guilty for saving your life and taking Lord T’Kuvma’s?”

 

Philippa nods vehemently, reaching for Michael’s hand again. “No,” she replies honestly, gazing into Michael’s eyes. _“No.”_

 

And Michael is glad, because she does not feel guilty for saving Philippa; it has never _occurred_ to her to feel guilty for that. She does feel guilty for the war, but _never_ for saving Philippa’s life.

 

“Good,” the Guardian says as light ripples over his skin, making him glow brighter for a few moments before it is dampened. “Each universe folds and unfolds as it will, with every action taken and not taken again and again in myriad and infinite combinations. We each change the universe simply by inhabiting it for whatever fraction of an instant we exist, be it a nanosecond or a billion years.

 

“But I must hurry,” he says, as another luminous ripple flows over his skin. “I cannot linger in this place too long. As we speak, from my perspective, Tam Elbrun has been dead for about five million years. You are standing within a grave, Philippa, Michael; my grave, and that of my companion,  _Gomtuu_ , who took me to the stars so long ago.”

 

As Michael tries to wrap her mind around this information, he commands them to “Look up,” much like the Guide had done earlier. The _‘ceiling’_ —for lack of a better word—writhes and teems with glowing life, appearing and disappearing at random; there are many Tardigrades, but the majority of the strange and luminous organisms are unknown to her. And for an instant, she thinks she sees the glowing, curious face, of the girl from the beach, up there as well.

 

“The mycelial plane, as you perceive it, is not a place _per se_ , like the Milky Way Galaxy, fluidic space or a quantum dimension; it is a way-station, if you will, a crossroad in a vast network of roads to other _wheres_. And as you have observed, Michael Burnham, this is a place of thought and consciousness … but it is also a place of pure emotion, so you will notice that your emotional states are heightened here. However, although there are few organisms that are _native_ to it, many that are _natural_ to it—your Tardigrade, for example,” he says quickly, pushing past Michael’s intended interruption to request clarification. Philippa squeezes her hand gently, and she subsides as he continues.

 

“As you’ve no doubt determined, she is an evolution of a microscopic Earth creature, and so, like you, she is native to the Milky Way, and the milieu of omnicordial universes that encompass those myriad realities—for lack of a better concept. But in co-evolving with _Prototaxites stellaviatori_ , and following it to this place, the Tardigrades found a safe haven in which to have offspring and have evolved to make use of all it has to offer.

 

“Like the salmon species of your Earth’s oceans, they spend most of their lives in deep space—and they move through the ominicords of the multiverse as naturally as a salmon might swim the ocean’s currents. But when it is time to reproduce, in the same way that salmon migrate long distances inland, into the natal freshwater rivers and waterways in which they were first hatched, the Tardigrade return to nest in the nutrient-rich shelter in which they were born … to my _Gomtuu_ , here on the mycelial plane. However, unlike many of those species of salmon, which die after spawning, once they have produced offspring, the Tardigrade parent must undertake a very special mission in the omnicordial universes outside the mycelial plane.

 

“Although the babies are sheltered and nurtured, and relatively safe from predation, the only type of spore found here, in any abundance, are the spores with the quantum signature of the mycelial plane. In order for their offspring to grow strong and healthy, and be able to navigate the multiverse, their diet of spores must have as wide a variety of quantum signatures, from as many sources as possible—”

 

“Therefore, the mother Tardigrade must forage for spores in as many universes she can reach,” Philippa whispers hoarsely. Michael gathers her into her embrace; she, too, feels the weight of his judgement in his gaze.

 

“Yes, Philippa Georgiou.” His voice is implacable as he continues relentlessly, and Michael feels Philippa’s heart break with the guilt and shame of it. “Furthermore, aside from the physical and mental _torture_ of being forced to interface with your unliving machines … aside from holding her captive and forcing her to only interact with the spores of your quantum plane with each jump … aside from the malnourishment from a diet rich in spores with a only single quantum signature, there was also the _unspeakable_ _torture_ of having her most important senses impaired and being unable to reach all those myriad universes and realities her very _instincts_ told were still out there just beyond her _prison_. The only _limited_ comparison I can make is that you not only _blinded_ her, but you condemned her to taste only a single flavour; even sweetness rapidly becomes unbearably unpalatable if it is all you are fed, especially if you can still smell an entire banquet just out of your reach. And you would rapidly become diabetic with all the sugar.

 

“But beyond even that, Philippa Georgiou, what do you think happened to her nest of babies, when their mother did not return with vital sustenance for them?” he asks implacably, and Michael feels all the hairs on her arms rise with dread. And she feels Phillipa’s utter horror.

 

“I am sorry, Tam Elbrun,” Philippa husks, stepping from Michael’s embrace towards him. Michael follows automatically, for she is not prepared to let Philippa go where she cannot follow. “I can offer no justification, only explain. We are fighting a war with a foe that only seems interested in the destruction of the Federation … in subjugating or exterminating our peoples, and in the face of that, I did not have the _courage_ or moral fortitude to say _“no”_ to the advantages using the Tardigrade gave us.”

 

“ _Torturing_ the Tardigrade.”

 

“Torturing the Tardigrade,” she repeats, and Michael feels her crippling shame and guilt again, but Philippa’s gaze does not waver under the Guardian’s condemnation.

 

“The needs of the many.”

 

“Yes, but that is not justification either.”

 

“Desperation.”

 

 _“Yes,”_ Philippa croaks and he nods; they are silent for a long moment.

 

The Guardian’s voice rings out and Michael realizes that she is hearing him telepathically as well as aurally; he blossoms in her mind with the force of a supernova.

 

 _"Captain Philippa Georgiou, you are_ guilty  _of causing the destruction of a Tardigrade nest under the protection of this Guardian. Now you would stand before me and ask for mercy for you and your people."_

 

Philippa stands before him, small and vulnerable. She is wearing her uniform now, Michael notices; they both are. Michael reaches again for her, but cannot touch her, no matter how hard she strains to. The Guide’s hand is suddenly on her shoulder, gently, but firmly holding her in place and she understands, at last, that Philippa must stand alone. She cannot protect her, or even stand beside her; Philippa must face the Guardian’s judgement alone, and it is Michael who has brought her to this place.

 

Philippa clasps her trembling hands behind her back, stands ramrod straight, and answers simply with one word, _"Yes."_

 

#

 


	9. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't get to sleep, so a bit of constructive insomnia - LOL! Oh well, the middle of the night is about the only time I get any time to myself to write anymore, so might as well use it. Enjoy!
> 
> And as usual, please let me know if there are any unsightly blemishes!

“Seriously,” Archer said with definite awe watching Tilly and Landry leave engineering. “Who _is_ this girl?”

 

“Miss Tilly is quite possibly the best theoretical engineer to come through the Academy since Montgomery Scott, who is _still_ running around the quadrant masquerading as a _starship_ engineer,” Vice Admiral Vrishiren th’Zihl said quietly, his twitching antennae betraying his amusement. “I tried to get her for the Bureau of Shipbuilding, but she’d requested a shipboard posting, so Captain Georgiou was able to snap her up. The old Andorian Warrior in me finds her bravery simply magnificent, but the Starfleet engineer in me wants to lock her safely away in one of my labs; an engineer of her calibre should _not_ be in the thick of the fighting where any random Klingon can take pot shots at her! But I doubt I’ll be able to prise her away from Georgiou anytime soon.”

 

“What did Tilly mean by _the music has changed?_ Why would a change in background music playing in engineering have any significance to Captain Georgiou and Specialist Burnham? And why are they _naked_ in the drive cube in the first place?” Nechayev asked, looking suspiciously at Farzaneh and her colleagues, who now looked as guilty as Farzaneh knew she, herself, did.

 

“It isn’t simply _background_ music, captain,” Irailo answered at last, as she brought up a pair of brain schematics on the holo-projector, followed by engrammatic scans and a representation of musical waveforms. “It is the music of _them_ —the music of Captain Georgiou and Specialist Burnham made manifest; all their thoughts and hopes and dreams. Generally, there is always a melody emanating from the drive cube systems … light, _background_ music like in the earlier recording with Ms Tilly; but often, the music evolves into great symphonies involving myriad instruments and singing in an unknown language, which make different areas of their brains light up, especially those associated with experience and _learning_.”

 

As the two young captains stared gobsmacked, Irailo juxtaposed the two engrammatic scans over the musical waveforms—it was easy to see then, the correlation of the two different musical motifs blended in such harmony into one beautiful melody of harp and piano that burst forth from the speakers.

 

“Lieutenants Bryce and Detmer, along with Dr. Culber, have advanced the theory that they are the equivalent of communication … conversations—possibly telepathic emanations between Captain Georgiou and Specialist Burnham, on the mycelial plane, being broadcast—and due to our limitations, _interpreted_ as music by us and by our instruments here on this plane of reality,” she continued, as the _conversation_ between harp and piano was joined by French horns and violins, and then melancholic cellos and bright trumpets, with trills of sitars and flutes punctuated by deep-throated drums and ringing metallophones. “While Lieutenant Stamets believes it may represent something like a neuronal link, forming an internal trans-dimensional portal to the mycelial plane and possibly other universes.”

 

 _“Dear God!”_ Archer croaked; the complex tonalities wove their magic and rose to a crescendo, with the sudden wordless vocalisations of two women’s voices spiralling through the music—each distinct, but astonishingly complimentary. Even having heard it before, it still made Farzaneh’s heart race.

 

“However, Ms Tilly and one of _Discovery’s_ scientists, Dr. Nerial Azari-Tierith, believe that the music is simply Captain Georgiou teaching Ms Burnham how to dance,” Irailo said, “and brain scans certainly seem to support that as well; recordings of the subtle neuronal activity from their motor centres seem as if they are engaging in complex, co-ordinated movements suggestive of dancing.”

 

“Apparently, Philippa authorised a thirty-six-hour, on board liberty for the crew, and a party on the night before they went to Korvat; it was obvious then that Ms Burnham didn’t know how to dance,” Louis-Georges explained ruefully. “Perhaps it is a combination of all those theories—we won’t know until they wake up.”

 

“But that brings us to another reason some people have their knives out for Philippa,” Farzaneh said grimly. “Allegations have also been made against her for conduct unbecoming in regards to her relationship with Specialist Burnham and her actions on the night of the party.”

 

“ _What?_ Did she and Burnham have sex in the middle of the dance floor?” Nechayev asked incredulously.

 

Katrina laughed. “No, but Philippa came close—she participated in an Orion orgy dance with some of her crew.”

 

 _“A what?”_ Archer asked in confusion.

 

“An Orion snake dance,” Irailo clarified, bring up the party on the holo-projector. “She really is quite a gifted dancer—I _certainly_ hope to have a chance to dance with her.”

 

They watched Michael Burnham’s shy stumbling in the first dance, and Philippa’s realisation that her partner didn’t know the first thing about such a basic Human cultural pastime. Watching her friend’s obvious love for the younger woman play on her beautiful, expressive face, Farzaneh couldn’t help but envy Philippa her new relationship—and, if only just a little, regret her own lost opportunities—as Michael laid her head on her lover’s shoulder and just swayed with her.

 

 _Perhaps it’s time I allow Kat to set me up again … put myself out there again—it’s been_ far  _too long._

 

“Well, there’s certainly nothing to fault them for with those first couple of dances,” Nechayev said at last, “Not even the kissing had anything risqué about it.”

 

“Although their whispered conversation seems to have heated things up a bit,” Archer chuckled as Burnham all but tackled a laughing Philippa with a desperate, smouldering kiss that the captain of the _USS_ _Discovery_ returned fully—with interest!

 

The interruption by an amused Commander Ellen Landry and Quartermaster Liam McDougall broke them up before things got too carnal, and Michael’s excited expression was sweet to see after their hurried conversation in which she’d obviously encouraged Philippa to participate in the snake dance with her crewmembers.

 

It was lovely to watch her old friend be so flirty, before exploding into the erotic and overtly racy moves of the dance, but still with such grace—and not to mention _flexibility_ —as she brought one leg up to rest on Landry’s shoulder.

 

 _“Oh. My. God.”_ Archer said in utter astonishment, mouth hanging open as he followed her every move.

 

“Our Pippa has always loved to _dance_ , captain,” Katrina laughed.

 

“She’s classically trained,” Nechayev stated—more than asked—not taking her eyes off the recording for even a second.

 

“Yes, ballet and other classic forms from the age of three,” Farzaneh replied as Philippa and the Orion scientist stalked each other across the dance floor, before coming together with moves that were some of the sexiest she’d seen in years.

 

 _I really need to get out more_ , she sighed inwardly.

 

“Okay …” Nechayev said slowly as Michael moved awkwardly and shyly under Philippa’s and Nerial’s tutelage. “Most of that was pure  _sex on stilts_ , and yet Captain Georgiou and her crew were still quite circumspect for such an inherently carnal dance; even with the Orion, after the initial contact, they didn’t even _touch_ each other. The Admiralty would seriously prosecute _this?_ Georgiou is dressed quite conservatively—it’s a beautiful suit, but no more revealing than her uniform, and Burnham’s dress, while revealing, is hardly risqué; I’ve certainly worn a lot less and danced a lot more provocatively while on leave at  _Carnaval do Brasil_ , and especially at _Carnaval de Festina_ on Vega Colony, where most people don’t even wear clothes! And the crew was on liberty that night—surely the Admiralty can’t be _this_ petty!”

 

“You’d be surprised,” Katrina said sardonically.

 

“Yes, well there is the fact that _someone_ saw them kissing and I quote _“making out”_ in the turbolift and corridors on their way to Ms Burnham’s quarters afterward,” Louis-Georges added.

 

“Not to mention, they objected to Philippa spending the night _inside_ Michael Burnham’s quarters,” Katrina said, sounding as tired as she looked.

 

“So, this person not only objects to their relationship, but may have a grudge and also seems to be stalking them,” Archer said thoughtfully. “It sounds like this crewmember has an unhealthy obsession with them. Do you have any idea who it is?”

 

“They know,” Nechayev said gazing around the table, sharp, shrewd blue eyes missing nothing. “It was probably the same person who was on dock duty and _let_ Starfleet Security onto the ship to remove Georgiou and Burnham, in spite of the damage it could cause them, which means that _obsession_ has turned to _hate_.”

 

“Philippa,” Kat said quietly now. “Their obsession is with Philippa, but I doubt she ever really saw this person. Oh, she knew their name, knew enough about their work to hold a conversation … encourage them if she needed to—Pippa always made it a point to know her crewmembers down to the youngest technicians and cadets—and this probably fed a delusion of some kind of a relationship between them and further fueled the obsession. But even if she weren’t as obtuse as she tends to be sometimes about her own attractiveness, from everything I’ve discovered in my discussions with _Discovery’s_ senior staff, Philippa hasn’t interacted with this person enough to even have them on her _radar_ —much less notice a crush. And there is the fact that long before she even set foot on _Discovery_ , her heart was already committed to Michael.”

 

“To make matters worse, this person was injured during the action at Khitomer,” Louis-Georges supplied. “Not severely, but it was during the implementation of a rather radical plan developed by _Ms Burnham_ on the fly in the middle of battle, and by the time they returned to duty, the _incident_ had already occurred, and the ship was back here with Philippa and Ms Burnham in their current state.”

 

“And the _entire_ _ship_ knew of Philippa’s very public declaration that she would not allow Michael to again go where she could not follow,” Kat husked, rubbing her throat before clearing it, “or to be the only one to pay for her crimes.”

 

“Crimes, Admiral Cornwell?” Archer said gravely; both captains looked at her now with alarm.

 

Louis-Georges barked a hollow laugh. “It wasn’t even her crime, captains, and certainly _not_ Ms Burnham’s,” he said gravely. “No, the responsibility lies squarely with the Admiralty—with me, and Katrina, and Terral—and with all those upstairs who authorised it and have now pulled out their knives and turned on her, when she did _everything_ we asked and the fire got too hot.”

 

He stood and walked away from the table. Taking a breath, he turned to Katrina and nodded; she brought a representation of the mycelial plane up in the holo-display.

 

“Do you understand how your new ships’ experimental spore drives work, Captain Archer, Captain Nechayev?” he asked.

 

“Somewhat,” Archer said slowly. “We’re still studying the specifications, but basically it’s a displacement drive, creating a portal to use the mycelial network across an extra-dimensional plane as a shortcut across normal space. The problem is that we haven’t been able to make very long jumps—only a few hundred thousand kilometres at most—because the longer you attempt to navigate the network, the more uncertain your position relative to space and subspace and you risk becoming lost. But we assume that whatever Captain Georgiou’s engineer, Lieutenant Stamets, and his team did, alleviated the problem?”

 

“Actually, it was Lieutenant Straal, who came up with this particular solution before the incident on the _Glenn_ ,” Picard replied, bringing up the alien on holo-projector. “Their spore cache was infiltrated by a multi-dimensional alien that appears to have co-evolved in symbiosis with the fungi on the mycelial plane and is naturally able to navigate the network.”

 

“I thought that Straal’s theory was that the fungus appears to have evolved from an ancient Earth fungus,” Archer said with obvious confusion.

 

“That is one interpretation, or it may be that the ancient Earth fungus evolved from something that _came from space_ , given that similar species are found on many planets throughout the Alpha and Beta Quadrants. However, it is intriguing that the alien appears to be an evolution of a creature found here on _Earth_ ,” he said adding a harmless-looking, eight-limbed teddy bear-like animal to the display.

 

“That Earth-borne cousin—the Tardigrade, or water bear—is only a few millimetres in size for the largest species, but it is one of the hardiest organisms known on Earth. When in a dehydrated, ametabolic state, some species are able to withstand the harshest environments, including the vacuum of open space—this has been known for centuries. We’ve also known, since the early twenty-first century, that it is an organism that has a great capacity for horizontal gene transfer with other organisms. Tardigrades are ancient, and it’s been theorised that they may have been spread to space—and therefore evolved to this macro form—via an ancient asteroid impact event that threw ejecta from Earth into space, along with specimens in hibernation mode, which wouldn’t have been much larger than the mycelial spores themselves.”

 

“In any case, Lieutenant Straal figured out that the alien could be incorporated into the drive cube to act as an organic nav-AI,” th’Zihl continued, “Micropatterns in the neurons of its frontopolar cortex formed a neuronal link, an internal trans-dimensional portal that allowed it to displace itself to other universes. Incorporating the macro-Tardigrade into the drive allowed them full navigational control over the probabilistic nature of the spore drive and enabling them to make jumps of ninety light years in just 1.3 seconds, but it caused the creature intense distress.

 

“However, although they’d installed phasic shields, it was only around engineering and the spore lab to keep the spores and the creature from escaping. When the _Glenn_ jumped the last time, it hit an anomalous Hawking radiation firewall leaving the mycelial plane; which, if they had had phasic shielding around the entire ship, it might have prevented the loss of the crew. According to our analysis, the radiation caused quantum fluctuations in graviton micro flow-fields that were inimical to biological life, causing all biologicals on board the _Glenn_ , except for the macro-Tardigrade, to spin out, as evidenced by the extreme torsion that caused the crew’s death and resulted in the superficial helical scoring on the surface of the ship’s hull due to rapid basidiosac development and rupture from spores picked up on the mycelial plane.”

 

“With all due respect, admirals, commodores, doctor,” Archer said tightly; anger flashing in his eyes. “You’re talking _around_ the most important issue here—is that alien a _sentient being?_ ”

 

It was Katrina who answered him. “Yes, Captain Archer; we didn’t know for sure at first, but we knew it was a possibility, especially when Captain Georgiou expressed her opinion, based on its highly developed nervous system, and their observations at the beginning, that it might indeed be sentient.”

 

“And she still _used_ it?” he demanded in outrage.

 

“She was _ordered_ to use it,” Katrina said hoarsely. “She wanted to release it after the _Glenn_ disaster, but it was a valuable tactical asset—we couldn’t afford to let it go and, in fact, the Admiralty issued a general order to Starfleet ships and installations to be on the lookout for more of the creatures. It is how _Discovery_ was able to answer the distress call about the Klingon attack at Corvan II, saving that colony, and how she saved three others since; it is how she alleviated the crisis on Xarantine, by transporting that desperately-needed medicine to them, and not to mention how she got into Klingon space _undetected_ eleven days ago for all those attacks, and was able to rapidly get to systems _light years_ apart in a matter of a few minutes to make it seem like the attacks happened virtually simultaneously. Captains, the Klingons think that we have _three_ ships out there making those attacks!”

 

“Specialist Burnham also recognised its sentience almost immediately—got into a flaming row with Stamets … asked that it be released, as they were causing it pain with the jumps,” April continued gravely. “Philippa was forced to deny her request. She explained the reasons to Burnham, asked her to study it and eventually put her and Dr. Culber in charge of its welfare. But it was in studying the creature that Burnham made her breakthrough on how to beat the cloaking device.”

 

 _“My God,”_ Nechayev said hoarsely; there was awe in her blue gaze, but there was also a measure of disgust.

 

“But not only did she figure out the cloak,” th’Zihl said, “she was well on her way to figuring out how the alien navigated the mycelial plane. She had begun modelling it with the intention of building a navigational artificial intelligence and she had even begun to look beyond that.”

 

Both captains nodded; Farzaneh could see their grudging acceptance of this _expediency of war_. In a way, it hurt her to see the loss of their innocence and belief in Federation ideals, and she hoped that they wouldn’t have to experience the moral and ethical dilemma the Admiralty had put Philippa through, but recognised that it was a distinct possibility.

 

“However, the alien continued to grow more agitated and aggressive,” Katrina said with quiet despair. “Just after the action at Khitomer, it was very agitated, so _Discovery_ went to warp until they could calm it down and rig the spore drive for a jump back here to deliver their data.”

 

Katrina activated the holo-projector again and Farzaneh flinched; the maddened screams of the creature were almost unbearable. Despite it, she forced herself to bear witness to the pain and terror that the Admiralty had forced Philippa, Michael and the crew of _Discovery_ to perpetuate on an innocent being. She watched with dread as Philippa’s love entered the transparent drive cube with a micro-cycle caliper, speaking soothing words to the alien as she moved to the left mechanical arm that controlled one of the drive rods they had used to connect to the ports implanted in the sides of the creature so that they could access its lateral ganglia, which in turn gave them access to its central nervous system and its ability to control the jumps and navigate the mycelial network. The creature seemed to calm measurably under her kind words, and she began to adjust the mechanism.

 

“One of the drive-rod neuro probes became stuck, penetrating the ganglion—it was attached to—too deeply, causing the creature undue pain, and as she was the one with the best rapport with it, Specialist Burnham went into the drive cube to adjust it manually,” Katrina explained quietly.

 

The creature’s arm moved with blinding speed the moment one careless step, while she was concentrating on the mechanism, brought her just into its reach. Michael Burnham’s startled scream pierced straight through Farzaneh’s heart, as the Tardigrade pierced the young woman’s right side. It dragged a screaming Michael in front of it, like a human shield, and pierced her left side; the caliper dropped from nerveless fingers to clang on the floor, as her feet left the ground and she hung suspended from its claws, blood running freely down her sides, saturating the cloth of her uniform.

 

Her agonised shrieks intensified as glowing sensory tendrils extended beyond the protective sheaths of the creature’s exoskeletal bristles, attaching to Michael, burrowing beneath her uniform and into her hair to get to her—wherever they touched her skin glowed blue-white, with veins of the glowing substance spider-webbing beneath her dark skin.

 

It all happened so quickly that in the seconds before anyone could move, the door to the spore drive cube slammed shut and glowing mycelial spores in filled the enclosure; both Michael and the creature screamed in agony now. Stamets and Culber raced towards the drive cube, but it was far too late.

 

_“It’s taken control of the system!” Tilly shouted hysterically as Stamets tried frantically to override the door control. “It’s prepping for a jump and I can’t stop the sequence—get Michael out of there, lieutenant!”_

_“I can’t get the door—” he began, then everything just stopped as both Michael and the creature gave another soul-killing scream amid the whirling, glowing spores and phased plasma discharges the Tardigrade emitted._

 

The room went dark, except for the bright glow of the spores, the Tardigrade’s tendrils and Michael Burnham’s face and hands.

 

_Then, for an instant, everything went black—as if it all ceased to exist. Time stopped._

 

When light returned, Stamets, Culber, Tilly and the engineering team were splayed on the deck; Michael’s hoarse cries were softer, but no less tormented, while behind her, the Tardigrade roared its pain.

 

Stamets and Culber stirred as Philippa’s voice repeated over the comm, calling for the engineer’s report. Gaping with horror at the drive cube, Stamets activated the comm, as Tilly groggily sat up and cried out inarticulately at the sight of Michael in the grip of the creature.

 

_“Stamets to the bridge,” the engineer called shakily. “Captain, you’d better get down here—it’s Specialist Burnham … the Tardigrade—the Tardigrade has attacked her!”_

 

Above Landry’s shouted orders, Philippa’s wordless cries were the wailing terror and anguish of animal caught in the teeth of a steel trap; it tore at Farzaneh’s soul. Moments later, Philippa materialised in engineering, struggling against Landry who was holding onto her tightly.

 

As she caught sight of Michael suspended before the creature, the claws of its upper pair of arms impaling her sides mirroring the drive rods impaling its body, Philippa lunged for the drive cube, straining against Landry’s hold, the power of her screams belying her small size.

 

_“Get her out of there!”_

 

Farzaneh knew that Philippa was a formidable fighter and adept at Chinese martial arts, but her friend’s wild, dark eyes held nothing of that knowledge now, only agony and devastation reducing her to her most basic instincts—and even that appeared to be too much for Landry, who could only hold on and bear the pain of her ferocious blows.

 

 _“Commander! Keep her back!”_ Michael cried in pain over the din of Philippa’s screams and struggles, while Dr. Culber attempted to explain the situation to her.

 

How much her old friend understood was debatable, as she cried a litany of _“No!”_ to her wounded love, her devastated crew and the tortured alien. Only Michael’s agonised command of _“Philippa, stop!”_ seemed to get through to her at last.

 

Philippa’s devastation was palpable as Michael explained that, by holding the Tardigrade captive, they had taken a mother from her nest of babies while she’d been foraging for food, and that she needed to take the creature home. Philippa stopped struggling and looked up at Landry; her silent plea was obvious as the security woman let her go and stepped back.

 

_“And you, Michael?”_

 

Her voice trembled and tears coursed down her cheeks as she stumbled to the drive cube, bracing her hands against the transparent wall separating them.

 

_“There is a price for everything, love.”_

 

Michael Burnham’s soft reply was as simple as it was utterly _damning_ , completely breaking the consummately poised Captain Philippa Georgiou at last and she beat her fists against the drive cube, howling her agony to the uncaring heavens.

 

 _“We had no right to keep her here, Philippa,” Michael pleaded, her voice at once both gentle and tortured as she overrode her lover’s cries. “Please let me take her home before it’s too late. If I don’t go now, we risk all life on this ship—_ all life  _on our entire plane of existence! The jumping we’ve done is damaging her and damaging the mycelial plane, but the beings that dwell there are not without recourse—the_ _network extends to every omnicordial_ universe _… every_ plane  _of each_ omnicord _… connecting_ _all, and though it will cause them great pain to do so, they can—and will—withdraw all_ _connections from_ this  _reality_ to protect the whole _! And if they do that, all life on this plane will_ _eventually wither and_ die _._

 

 _“The Hawking radiation firewall_ wasn’t  _an accident—it wasn’t an_ accident  _that it killed_ all  _biological life on board the_ Glenn _, except for the Tardigrade. The most powerful of the_ _inhabitants of the mycelial plane sent it in an effort to free her; he knew it would_ kill  _us, but it wouldn’t_ hurt  _her!”_

 

_“All right … all right, love, we will take her home,” Philippa replied, voice hoarse with sobs and regret, “but we will do it together!”_

 

_“Philippa?”_

 

 _“I will_ not  _let you go_ again  _where I cannot follow, Michael—please don’t ask it of me,” she_ _pleaded._

 

The abject begging in her voice was plain and painful for Farzaneh to hear.

 

 _“If you must stand and accept the judgement of this_ being  _for our crimes, then so must I,_ _love; for_ I am  _ultimately responsible! I gave the order to continue using her, even after you_ _reported that she might be sentient and that she was in pain—and to my shame, I knew long before that it was a possibility.”_

 

_“Oh, Philippa.”_

 

Her hoarse whisper was one of pure despair.

 

_“Bravely together, Michael.”_

 

_“Bravely together, Philippa.”_

Farzaneh bore witness to her friend’s bravery as she ordered the door of the spore drive cube opened and Stamet’s reply that he couldn’t, before the Tardigrade … _and Michael_ … released the locking mechanism and opened it.

 

She watched Commander Saru’s desperate attempt to keep Philippa from harm, and her gentle, _“Will you mutiny against me, Saru?”_ shocking him into releasing her to her fate.  _“My_ only _purpose now, my friend, is to save my_ herd _, my_ world _… my_ Federation  _from the consequences of_ my crime _; please allow me to do so.”_

 

There was a palpable sense of devastation as the Kelpien received Philippa’s final orders _. “If we are unable to, it will be up to you and Commander Landry to get_ everyone  _home to Starfleet Command as quickly as possible, and to transmit the scanning parameters and data to Admirals Cornwell and Picard.”_

 

With Saru’s acquiescence, she squeezed his hand and entered the spore-filled chamber, while Michael hoarsely stuttered the request that he set the exit co-ordinates for Earth, drop the phasic shields and withdraw the drive rods from the Tardigrade’s body.

 

Saru’s gentle reply accorded her obvious respect and the courtesy rank of _Commander Burnham_ once again, as he exhorted her to bring Philippa back safely … to bring them _both_ back safely. Michael nodded, but her sweet smile was marred by the tears in her bright, glowing eyes.

 

Philippa moved with fluid grace to stand before her love, and grasping her hands, laced their fingers together. Her wordless gasp penetrated the pall of silence that settled in engineering, as the blue-white glow flowed from Michael into Philippa, spreading from their joined hands, mapping out the capillaries and blood vessels in her wrists, before disappearing beneath her clothing. Within seconds, the vessels beneath the skin of her face began to glow as well, and then her tear-filled eyes.

 

 _“I’m sorry, my love,” Michael whispered, “Th-this will_ hurt _.”_

_“And I am sorry that I didn’t listen to you earlier,” Philippa replied sadly and leaned in to kiss her lover._

 

The moment their lips touched, the spores began to swirl faster around them, as if whipped by cyclonic winds. Saru’s voice was quiet as he relayed Michael’s final orders.

 

The Tardigrade screamed her pain as the mechanism withdrew its implements from her body. Philippa and Michael screamed in unholy chorus with her … and then in a flicker of light, they were gone.

 

A moment later, the crew was sprawled on the deck. There was another flicker of light and Philippa and Michael were again inside the drive cube in the same relative positions, still holding hands tightly and gazing deeply into each other’s eyes. However, Michael was now uninjured, but for the scars on both sides of her torso.

 

And, but for the black jewel pendant on the golden chain around Michael’s neck, and the heavy bracelet on Philippa’s wrist, both were completely naked as they floated among the lazily wafting spores.

 

#

 


	10. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: October 21, 2018
> 
> My apologies, I just realized that I'd uploaded the wrong version of this Interlude. That's what you get for updating in the middle of the night, then going to sleep and not double-checking your work. LOL! Enjoy!

_"Captain Georgiou, how did you come into possession of that Tardigrade?"_ The Guardian’s voice booms in Michael’s mind, like a tsunami flooding into the rooms of a house … flooding all her empty spaces and threatening the stability of her walls.

 

Philippa replies in a quiet, steady voice.  "The Federation is at war with the Klingons; my ship, the _USS Discovery_ , and her sister ship, the _USS Glenn_ , were assigned to find a way to navigate the mycelial plane in order to quickly deploy to warzones and crisis situations. The Tardigrade infiltrated the _Glenn’s_ spore cache just after an experimental jump; we believe that she mistook it for a rich, natural source. At first, they tried to shoo her away, but they quickly realised her natural affinity for the spores and captured her to study it. It didn’t take them long to understand that the Tardigrade possessed not only a unique affinity for the spores, but the ability to navigate the mycelial plane." 

 

As Philippa relates their story, Michael becomes aware of a strange discontinuity, of everything dissolving around her; her entire reality is concentrated on the glowing Guardian and on her love, standing there so small and vulnerable before him.

 

Philippa's consciousness explodes and Michael finds herself rising from the deck of _Discovery’s_ bridge. It takes her a moment to realise she is experiencing Philippa’s memory of the ship’s first jump using the Tardigrade.

 

_Keyla Detmer is slumped over the conn station; Joann Owosekun gently lowers her to the deck, scanning her with a tricorder before looking up at her captain._

_“It looks like a mild neural shock, ma’am,” she reports, clearing her throat of unexpected huskiness—otherwise her demeanor is entirely professional. Philippa nods, remembering that her operations officer has recently started a relationship with her lead pilot. “She should awaken shortly, but she needs to get to sickbay to adjust her implant so it doesn’t happen again.”_

_Philippa begins issuing orders on instinct, as one of Landry’s security officers comes forward with an antigrav stretcher._

_“Take the conn, Lieutenant Owosekun.” The dark-skinned woman nods and slides into the pilot’s station. “Where are we?” Philippa demands, turning to her spore drive operations officer._

_“We’re right where we plotted the jump, ma’am,” Lieutenant Commander Airiam replies. “Corvan II."_

_Philippa’s stomach tightens and she works to push down the rising nausea from the guilt of_ enslaving  _the Tardigrade to_ Discovery’s  _drive. Her crew … her Federation. She focuses her thoughts only on them._

_Saru manages to get the viewscreen operational and she sees the bright red disk of_ _Corvan II_ _, looming large against the stars; three Klingon ships are in orbit._

_"... they’ve begun bombarding the settlements on the surface, captain."  His voice echoes and reverberates in Michael ears._

_“Plot a series of micro-jumps, Commander Ariam,” she orders as she considers the enemy ship placements. “We will take the targets in the following sequence—Bravo, Charlie, Alpha; and don’t give them any time to get a bead on_ Discovery _.”_

_"As soon as we come out of each jump, Commander Landry, lock phasers on them,” Philippa orders, letting her fury off its leash, “and a full spread of torpedoes! I want those ships out of my sky!"_

The ship dissolves about Michael as they execute the first jump and a sudden profusion of explosions blossoms in the space around Corvan II, scattering dreams of Klingon conquest to the cold void between the stars.

 

_#_

_And then Michael is with Philippa at one end of a large chamber, staring in horror at the unfathomable rows upon rows of bodies laid out on the ground before her. And these are just the ones that have a chance of being identified and claimed. There are thousands more for which there is little hope of identification, except with DNA samples—if they’d ever been gene-scanned, that is; many don’t bother on frontier colonies like this one, especially if they are Neo-Traditionalists, who object to being “genetically catalogued”. And in many cases, there is no one left who can identify or claim them for burial._

_Starfleet personnel walk through the rows with shell-shocked survivors, desperately trying to identify loved ones among the dead. They are the victims of_ Kodos the Executioner _, one man who, in the middle of an unimaginable crisis—when a virus decimated the colony’s food crops and stores—overthrew and imprisoned the rightful governor, then had himself declared the new governor because he felt that_ he  _should be the one to decide who lived and who died … who was_ worthy  _of living and who should die to ensure that the_ Worthy  _lived._

"The revolution is successful. But _survival_ depends on drastic measures. Your continued existence represents a _threat_ to the well-being of society. Your lives mean slow death to the _more valued members of the colony_. Therefore, I have no alternative but to _sentence_ you to _death_. Your execution is so ordered; signed Kodos, Governor of Tarsus IV."

Days _… Philippa and the_ USS Narbonne _, a ship of first responders carrying life-saving food, had arrived only_ days  _too late to stop that_ butcher’s  _draconian edict; gathering and_ executing half the population  _of the colony—_ 4,000 people _—so that the remaining food stores would be sufficient for the_ more valuable half  _of Tarsus IV to survive until Starfleet’s original projection of when the relief ships would get there. Philippa’s soul cries out helplessly—and an incredible tidal wave of_ guilt  _for that helplessness surges through her._

_Michael hears a scream of pure agony as a colonist found a loved one among the ranks of the dead … and then another … and another …_

_Philippa curls in on herself to keep from screaming aloud … and then Michael’s own screams joins the chorus, as she plunges deeper into the tides of Philippa’s memories._

 

#

 

The Guardian’s chamber comes into focus.  Philippa does not know how long she has been swept along in the undertow of her memories … a moment … an eternity…

 

"And what of your mistakes on Akador?" he demands.

 

Philippa looks up at him in despair, as she tries to deal with the onslaught of fears and memories that churn to the surface and threaten to drown her in their wake.

 

_In the distance, she can hear the whine of phaser fire, the explosions, and the screams of those dying around her. She chokes on the smoke and the stench of singed flesh as she fights to answer the Guardian._

 

"I did my best," she croaks hoarsely, throat burning.

 

 _"Your best?"_   he sneers with exquisite contempt. "One hundred and eighty _civilians_ —you were charged with protecting— _slaughtered_ because _you_ forgot to set the western proximity detector."

 

_The enemy bursts through the perimeter shield walls.  She and her squad continue to lay down cover fire, as civilian refugees stampede towards the inner enclave. As they fall back, she stops to pick up an injured child—a little boy no older than five.  She can feel his blood seeping through her uniform as she runs. Ahead of her, Morton turns, firing at the enemy … giving his life to buy them time to reach the enclave._

_Everywhere, fires rage against a blackened sky and, everywhere she turns, there is death. Even in her arms._

 

#

 

Michael's voice pulls her out of the past. "It was _war!_ ” she shouts at Tam Elbrun. “She cannot be blamed for mistakes made in the confusion of battle—for events that were the result of a situation that had been out of control before she even _arrived_ on that world! Captain Georgiou, how many people were saved that day?"

 

"Eight thousand, five hundred and seven," she answers, her voice barely above a whisper, as she continues to stare fixedly at the glowing Guardian.

 

"And how did you beat back the Nausican Mercenaries that the Yridians had _hired_ to attack the Aka, Philippa, buying enough time until reinforcements arrived?"  Michael asks softly.

 

"When everyone was inside the compound, we reprogrammed the remaining shield generators to cycle at a higher resonance frequency, which set up a feedback loop in the energy cells of their disrupters.  When the weapons exploded, anyone carrying a disrupter died. Starfleet weapons are phasers and carry a different energy signature."

 

"Finally, Captain Georgiou, who conceived of and executed that plan?"

 

"I did."

 

#

 

Her mind is a chess board, her memories playing pieces—all entirely under the Guardian’s control—thrust here and there, move and counter-move.

 

"And what of the Osir’tul?" Tam Elbrun asks. _The People of Osir … the Children of Osir._

 

 _"Come with me, all of you! My ship is coming! I can take you_ home  _..."_

_“Like_ this _—Osleso’tul?” Shishua’tul cries, thrusting out his skinny—nearly skeletal—grey arms with the distinctive black tattoos running down the length of his forearm to the backs of his four-digit hands. Worse are the tattoos upon his face—on all the faces of the Osir’tul slaves._

Indigenous people, captured as slaves, and brought to the other side of their planet to work the rich dilithium mine of Osir III for a Federation conglomerate bringing to market more of the precious mineral than could be accounted for by their _legitimate_ mining concerns.

 

Philippa had been sent deep undercover—married to Christos Georgiou, the then Federation Ambassador to Coridan, where the Bright Spar Mining Corporation was headquartered—tracing the principals for over eight months, before identifying the head of the rogue mining operation and his base of operations, and then infiltrating by the fastest means once Louis-George had received evidence that they were using _slaves_. And she had made sure that before he left Coridan, after the company's bi-annual meeting, Regional Director Pel Hunter was enamoured enough by her that he would take the risk of paying an Orion slaver to kidnap her and sell her to an _entertainment establishment_ he owned as a side business on Osir III; her dance training had come in _very_ handy on that mission.

 

But at this moment, Hunter is sitting in his office with his throat cut. She’d had no choice; he’d awoken somehow from his drugged sleep and stumbled his office as she was setting a scuttling charge while downloading evidence from his system that Starfleet could use to prosecute Bright Spar Mining and any Starfleet officers they’d bribed to look the other way regarding their illegal activities.

 

In a way, she had come full circle from her very first mission with Katrina and Louis-Georges on board _Excalibur_ , where the captain, security chief, engineering chief and at least three of the senior non-commissioned officers had been on the take from a major syndicate in their sector. The original first officer had also been in on the scheme, but had died and been replaced by Owen Paris, promoted from chief helmsman. How deeply Owen had been involved was debatable; Philippa had never been able to find any proof, but she knew he had to have been aware of, and—at the very least—turned a blind eye to the illegal activities onboard the ship. And it hadn’t been worth it to hurt Farzaneh like that—especially not when she’d quickly realised what Philippa and Katrina were about, and offered her impressive skills to help them succeed in gathering the evidence against those officers and senior non-coms.

 

#

 

 _“They have written upon our bodies … upon our very souls!” Shishua’tul screams at her now. “How are we to go_ home  _to the People like this?”_

_“But you cannot remain here,” she explains urgently. “I’ve armed the devices to destroy the facility and neutralise the poison that is making your people sick. I explained this before—when they go off, you will_ die  _if you are still in the vicinity. We must go now!”_

_“No, Little Osleso’tul,” E’Thansula’tul, the Priestess, croons; her glittering grey eyes are testament to the gamma-tetracil poisoning she is suffering from. “We are Osdas’loa now, but we were once proud Osir’tul. It is enough that you have given us this means to escape … to be Osir’tul again. Go Little Osleso’tul. Live! We shall hold the_ beasts  _here … keep them here until the time of our deliverance into the arms of Osir.”_

The Beasts _; if you are not a person, then you are_ beast _—for only_ beasts  _would do such things to_ People _._

_At first Philippa does not understand, and then she does. They do not smile—Osir’tul facial musculature and physiology are such that they are incapable of this common humanoid trait, but she sees their gentle smiles anyway in their intelligent grey eyes._

_And she realises that she had placed them on this path the moment she had trusted E’Thansula’tul enough to explain her mission, how deeply wrong what Bright Spar Mining was doing, that it was against Federation law and that she was there to stop them. It was then that the Priestess had accorded her the status of_ ‘tul’ – ‘person’ _, and got her people to set the devices—that Louis-Georges had arranged with the Orions to smuggle down to the planet—in strategic places around the mine over the last week._

_The explosions will not only destroy the mine and its attendant facilities, but also aerosolize vats of the rare and valuable stabilising agent, tellerium, used in the final processing to stabilise the dilithium crystals for use in warp engines. It also has the side effect of binding with gamma-tetracil, used earlier in processing, to inactivate both compounds, leaving behind useless, and relatively harmless, by-products._

 

Osleso’tul—Stranger from an Outside God _. Everything about their culture leads back to their God, Ir; for every birth must eventually lead to the grave. And she is the only_ beast  _they have ever elevated to_ personhood _, the old Priestess has told her, as she’d bathed, perfumed and made Philippa ready for the man who_ thought  _he’d owned them both._

_Philippa runs then into the night, along the ridge of the mountain, still covered in the blood of the man she has killed, naked but for a hastily donned peignoir … the shoes on her feet. She clings to her tricorder and her subspace beacon, but loses her re-breather when she falls for the third time, scraping hands and legs and cheeks on the jagged rocks; her lungs burn in an atmosphere not meant for human beings and made more foul by the poisonous gamma-tetracil the company carelessly pumps into the air, which swaddles planet, destroying its delicate ecological balance and making it impossible to beam living organisms off the surface._

_A fleet of shuttles scream down from the heavens like avenging angels, making short work of the phaser canon batteries emplaced on the mountainside to protect the facility. One barely touches down and Louis-Georges hauls her in through the open hatch at the back._

_“Where are the native slaves you said needed rescuing and relocation back to their towns on the eastern continent?” he shouts; the shuttle takes off without waiting for the rear hatch to fully close_

_“They would not come,” Philippa croaks as he wraps her in a blanket, folding her into his arms._

_She leans out of the closing hatch to watch as the mountainside erupts with cataclysmic explosions. "They felt that they could not go home, and they no longer wished to live with indelible markings on their skins, which they believed took away the meaning of their lives," she mourns as she tries desperately to make sense of things for herself. “They were no longer_ Osir’tul—the Children of Osir _…_ the Children of the God, Ir _. They were_ Osdas’loa—the Soulless against the God’s Will _. Their bodies are not their own; the Body must be returned to the God, Ir, as it was given to them. Scars and wounds are permitted upon the Body, as they are marks of God’s Will on the Path back to Osir. Deliberate marks upon the Body are forbidden; they are blasphemy against God’s Will.”_

_And it is then that Philippa knows she can no longer continue in this life she chose so long ago, before she could truly understand the wounds and marks it would leave upon her soul. She does not wish to become_ Osdas’loa; _she wants to be worthy of being_ Osleso’tul _… and she wants to be worthy of all the_ Osir’tul _she has left behind to die. She will choose another way to serve her Federation … she will choose another Path back to Osir._

#

 

The Guardian’s voice plunges her back into cold reality. "So, you gave them the means to commit _suicide_ and to _murder_ all those mining employees?"

 

Philippa looks deep into the Guardian's eyes and finds the gentle understanding of E’Thansula’tul there. "I gave them the means to _choose_ their own Path back to God," she replies as the waters close in above her head and she sinks deeper into vast ocean of her past.

 

#

 


	11. Interlude

It feels like an eternity has passed in this place where there is no time. Philippa clings to the one thought that she has held as a guide.  _I have always tried to do what was right, to follow my conscience and to show compassion_.

 

"Tell me then, was it _compassion_ you showed Cynthia Donahue?"  Tam Elbrun asks in a voice laced with sarcasm.

 

Philippa Georgiou is swept away on a tide of shame and regret—and all those memories she’s spent a lifetime _distancing_ herself from. _Running_ _from_.

 

 _Cynthia_ , she thinks wildly, _my God … I’m so sorry, Cyn_. 

 

 _Cynthia_ , with dancing eyes the colour of the sky; always smiling for her. That is how she always tries to remember her, and not the young girl—who had hurt her so badly—that Philippa had ripped her self-confidence to shreds and inadvertently shamed her in front of her own father.

 

#

 

_Cynthia scoops her up in her arms and twirls her around the living room, kissing her passionately.  Philippa is delirious with more happiness than she had ever thought her sixteen-year-old heart could contain, laughing into her shoulder, thick, red curls soft against her cheek._

_"Cyn ... Cyn put me down!" she giggles giddily; her tall, strong Parrises Squares captain can really act like a five-year-old when she wants to._

 

_"Philippa! Oh Philippa!" She is breathless, as if she has run all the way there.  "I've missed you so much, Pippa."_

_It’s been three weeks since they’ve seen each other … three weeks since Philippa had gone to Mars with her family on vacation—the longest they’ve ever been apart since they were fourteen and Cyn’s mother had taken her and her older brother for a two-month vacation in New Samarkand on Alpha Centauri III, when her ship had put into the Proxima Maintenance Yards for repairs._

_Her family’s vacation was to be for four weeks, but Philippa has returned to Earth a week early to take part in a retreat with Master Chen, her martial arts instructor, in advance of a major pan-species competition in unarmed combat._

 

And it was the last time she’d seen her family. _Ibu, Bapa, Adik Lelaki; Saya akan hidup untuk cinta_. _Mother, Father, Little Brother; I will live for love_.

 

#

 

In those awful days and weeks and months following her family’s loss, when she saw them in her dreams night after night and longed to join them, Philippa had clung to Cynthia, her only anchor in a suddenly scary, turbulent world … her only reason for living.

 

Years later, Philippa would realise that her uncle and her grief counsellor had been right about how _unfair_ she’d been, and how unprepared a seventeen-year-old girl would have been to have the _responsibility_ for another person—another person’s happiness—thrust upon her, as well as how little context Cynthia would have for such overwhelming grief.

 

Then, there had only been the _unimaginable hurt_ that two young girls in pain could inflict on each other.

 

_#_

_“I’m sorry I can’t get over the_ deaths  _of my_ entire  _family in just a couple of weeks to please you!”_ _she screams at her girlfriend._

 

 _“_ Weeks?  _It’s been_ three months _, Philippa,” Cynthia screams right back. “You’re not grieving, you’re_ wallowing _! You quit ballet … you haven’t been to Master Chen’s in weeks—you barely even go to school and when you do go, you don’t even try!”_

 

#

 

Cynthia was going to go to Starfleet Academy to become a Starfleet captain like her mother—her older brother was already a second-year cadet—while Philippa would join the San Francisco Ballet Company, work her way up to principal dancer. They’d planned it since meeting at age fourteen at the ballet school, when Cyn and her botanist father had moved to Pulau Langkawi, where he’d taken up a professorship at the university. Cyn had never been anything but a recreational dance student, but once they’d become friends, she’d loved to watch Philippa—even if it was just simply barre work. And although they hadn’t started dating until Philippa turned fifteen—her _old-fashioned_ Ibu’s rule—nearly _six months_ after Cynthia’s fifteenth birthday, from that first introduction, Cyn had been the first person to make Philippa feel like she could literally  _burst_ from the love she felt.

 

But Philippa had jeopardized all their plans by quitting ballet, and even though she’d gone back to it, it wasn’t with the same passion that might have once impressed the prestigious San Francisco Ballet Company. By the time she’d begun to see her way clear, with the support of her Uncle Anthony and Counsellor Harren, she’d found that Cynthia was drifting away from her as she fell naturally in with a group of friends who were also Academy bound.

 

So, when her uncle, a Starfleet commander with a specialty in communications, had suggested that given her childhood interest in astronomy, Starfleet might help reignite the passion that she’d always channelled into dancing, and help her find the balance and sense of purpose she’d found in her studies with Master Chen, a desperate Philippa had grasped at it like a life-preserver.

 

#

 

The scene changes abruptly and Philippa is in a place she never wanted to be again. A place of fear and anger and jealousy, where she and Cynthia had acted most shamefully toward each other … where they had been angriest … where Cynthia had been at her most brutal and where Philippa had been at her most _cruel_. 

 

 _“No … no …”_ she moans softly.

 

She and Cynthia are angry, screaming at each other. That final, furious argument where the _worst_ things had been said. _And done_. They had been clashing for a long time; they had broken up three times in as many months and gotten back together, but now after the things they had said—were saying—it was final now.

 

And looking into her first love’s face, Philippa’s heart breaks all over again.

 

#

 

_This time, it is Philippa who runs all the way to Cynthia’s house; for the first time in nearly a year, she is filled with happiness untainted by grief._

 

_“Cyn! Cyn!” she yells, racing into her girlfriend’s house without stopping to greet a bemused Professor Donahue, who’d opened the front door to her impatient banging. The professor laughs and disappears, as he always does when Philippa comes over, into his little greenhouse at the side of the house._

_“I got in, Cynthia! I can go with you to San Francisco!” she screams happily as she nearly tackles Cynthia to the floor; her tall girlfriend catches her and manoeuvres them to land on the couch instead._

_“You got into the Ballet Company?” she asks in confusion. “I didn’t know that you’d applied.”_

_Philippa blushes, a bit shy now. “No, I didn’t get into SF Ballet—my audition was_ pretty  _terrible,” she admits with a high, nervous giggle. “But this is_ better _, Cyn, I got into_ Starfleet Academy! _” Cynthia’s mouth drops open as she gapes at Philippa in shock. “Isn’t that wonderful? Now I can go with you!” she squeals, throwing her arms around Cynthia’s neck and pressing their lips together._

_Cynthia doesn’t respond; her body is painfully stiff. Philippa pulls back, regarding her in confusion._

_“Cyn, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy—we can go to the Academy together now.”_

_“You applied to_ Starfleet Academy  _and didn’t_ tell  _me?” Cynthia asks in a low, harsh voice._

_“Y-Yes,” Philippa replies, suddenly afraid of her girlfriend’s tone—a tone that she’s come to associate with their major blow-outs. Gathering her courage, she forges ahead, trying to explain. “I was afraid that I wouldn’t get everything together in time to make this year’s deadline, and then that I wouldn’t get in. As it was, I barely made it onto the list for the last cohort to take the entrance exam—and I didn’t want to get your hopes up in case I failed it. But I got my letter this morning and they accepted me!”_

_“Well,_ congratulations  _to you,” her girlfriend says in a flat, sarcastic tone. “Must be_ nice  _to have an uncle who can pull strings to get you into the Academy.”_

_A coldness steals over Philippa’s skin like a wave. “I d-don’t understand,” she husks. “Why would you say something like that? I took the_ exam _, Cyn—my uncle didn’t do anything but help me with the prep.”_

_“Your uncle_ helped  _you with the prep?” she growls. “That’s some kind of edge, Philippa; and you didn’t think that I might want some of that_ help  _as well?”_

_“_ What?  _You knew that my uncle was Starfleet—if you’d wanted his help, all you had to do was ask, Cynthia!” Philippa reaches for her again, but she pulls her arm away. “I only asked Uncle Anthony because you were always too busy with your Academy Prep Group, and you no longer wanted to study with me because you were all so far ahead._ You  _were the one who said it wouldn’t be fair to slow the group down! And by the time I decided to try, I thought that if I didn’t get in, if you didn’t know I had tried, you wouldn’t be disappointed in me for failing. Besides, I figured if you wanted actual Starfleet help, you’d ask your mom or your brother,” she says in confusion. “Why are you_ acting  _like this?”_

_“Get out.”_

_Philippa stares at her girlfriend with incomprehension. “Tell me what’s wro—”_

_The sound of flesh against flesh is shockingly loud._

_“I said get out of my house!”_

_“Cynthia?” Philippa whimpers, tears coming hot and heavy now as she cradles her cheek. She isn’t hurt physically … not really—she’s been hit harder when sparring—but she is devastated that her girlfriend has actually_ struck  _her._

_“What did you_ think  _would happen after_ months  _of me having to deal with your_ bullshit _, Philippa!” Cynthia screams at her. “You_ ruined  _my chance—and now you come here_ expecting  _me to be_ happy  _for you?”_

_And_ that’s  _when Philippa realises it._ My Cynthia didn’t get into Starfleet Academy. Oh, dear God, she didn’t get in! And she blames _me_ for it.

_She reaches for her girlfriend again, to hold her and remind her that there was always next year—to help soothe that pain in any way she can._

_“I’m s-sorry—”_

 

 _Cynthia pushes her away again, continuing her venomous tirade. “You’re s-sorry?” she sneers. “You ruin my life and that’s all you can say? Since_ when  _did you_ ever  _want Starfleet? And don’t tell me you got in on your_ pathetic  _grades! How many_ favours  _did your uncle_ really  _call in?”_

_“That’s enough, Cynthia!” Philippa cries, her pride stiffening her backbone at last. “I worked_ hard  _for my grades this term—to pull them back up!”_

_“Poor little Philippa Khan,” she jeers. “Poor Little Orphan Pippa … so_ brave  _after losing her_ family _… wouldn’t want to set her back, she_ tries  _so hard—those were_ pity grades  _our teachers gave you!”_

_Philippa feels herself go cold inside then. “That’s not true and you know it!” she grates out, voice low and harsh. “I worked my_ ass  _off to earn my grades! I_ earned  _my place at Starfleet Academy, and if you’d paid_ half  _as much attention to the_ actual tactical strategies  _of Starfleet’s captains for the exam, instead of strategies for a winning_ _Parrises_ _Square team to make you_ look good  _on the application, you might have_ earned  _your place too!” she says viciously, scorn dripping from her voice as she invades a speechless Cynthia’s space, forcing her to take a step back._

_“Maybe you would have_ earned  _your place if you’d_ actually  _spent your time_ studying  _all those subjects you were_ supposed to  _with your Academy Prep Group—since it was all_ too advanced and complex  _to explain to_ Stupid Little Pippa _—instead of studying how to get your_ hands down Mayann Soriella’s pants! _”_

_Cynthia gapes at her, shaking and pale with shock; her eyes brim with tears._

_“What? You think I didn’t_ know _? How could I_ not _—after she’d spread it all over school that you’d_ slept  _with her! But like a_ fool _, I tried to ignore it, because I_ refused  _to believe that you would do_ that  _to me! And_ yes _, I’ve heard “Poor Little Pippa Khan” a lot over the last couple of weeks, but it wasn’t because of my grades—no, everyone was_ pitying  _me because of my_ slut  _of a girlfriend!”_

_This time Philippa catches Cynthia’s arm in an iron grip before her hand makes contact with her face. “You only get_ one  _hit, Cynthia,” she bites out, her voice low and raw with anguish that her love would try to strike her again. “Then_ never  _again.”_

_There is a sudden indrawn breath behind her. “Cynthia, you_ hit  _Philippa?” Professor Donahue croaks in disbelief._

_Philippa ignores him as she holds Cynthia’s gaze. “Don’t you_ ever  _try to lay your hands on me again,” she warns and Cynthia nods mutely._

_She lets her arm go. “Goodbye Cynthia,” she says formally, before turning her gaze to Cynthia’s stricken father. “Goodbye Professor Donahue; I thank you for your hospitality over years.”_

_Without acknowledging his stuttered, “Ph-Philippa?” she pelts past him out the door and runs and runs and runs._

 

#

 

 _No!!!!_  

 

Philippa’s mind rails against his invasion of her most private secrets. She never expected it to be like this. She never expected such complete exposure, such utter nakedness before him and she realizes that nothing she could possibly have conjured up could have prepared her for this experience. 

 

 _No! Please God, no_ , she begs. 

 

The memory dissolves; she feels momentary vertigo and she is back in the Guardian’s chamber, where he is facing off against the young singer from the beach.

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Diz for correcting my translation of "brother" in Malay.


	12. Interlude

The girl's voice is high and furious as she appears between Philippa and the Guardian.

 

"Stop! That was unfair … un-un- _unpardonable!_ You had no _right_ to touch that memory. It has nothing to do with her being captain or with her—her character as a Star-Starfleet officer!"

 

Philippa is shocked at the child’s defense of her—and then is even more appalled that this girl may have witnessed her memories … all her transgressions, along with Michael and the ever present, but now silent, Guide.

 

"But it has everything to do with her character as a _person_ ," the Guardian replies implacably.

 

"No! You’re wrong! Why are you being so _mean_ , Tam? Don’t go there again!"

 

"And who will stop me—you?" the Guardian sneers, then bows mockingly to the girl, who gapes at him with incomprehension as he continues his attack.

 

Memory after memory washes over Philippa and adrift in that lonely sea of pain she loses all track of self and time. She slips in and out of the past, providing answers to questions she has never thought to ask; digging into the graves of things long buried …

 

#

 

_… in a watery grave …_

_The shuttle … sinking … Ibu … Bapa …_

_Oh Jason … there are no Heroes here, Little Brother …_

_… no_ Argo  _to bear you on your journey …_

_… only lionfish and eels are in the water now with the sharks …_

_… and glistening white skeletons … bones picked clean …_

 

_“No!!!  No!!!”_

 

Philippa collapses into the memory of that bright, bright day—joyfully sparring with her partner Li Qian in Master Chen’s School—when Terran Security comes to tell her that her family has died … that the shuttle ferry’s engine experienced _unexpected catastrophic failure_ and plunged into the ocean, killing everyone onboard before an emergency transport could be initiated.

 

#

 

 _“Stop!”_ Michael shouts at the Guardian, wrenching herself from the Guide’s grip and hurling herself at the barrier that prevents her from touching Philippa … from _comforting_ her, but it doesn’t prevent her from witnessing her memories or feeling her pain.

 

“Please!” she begs, turning her attention to the girl. “He’s _hurting_ her!”

 

The girl looks indecisive and in pain herself, tears threatening as her chin trembles.

 

Michael watches in horror as Philippa falls to her knees screaming, folds in upon herself … curls into a foetal ball—as if to protect that young girl she’d been by curling her within her own _self_ —and _disappears_.

 

 _“No! No! No! No! No!”_ Michael cries and, suddenly, the barrier is gone. She stumbles forward and crashes to her knees. “Where is she? What did you do with her?” she shouts at this man who had seemed so kind earlier.

 

“I did nothing,” Tam Elbrun replies. “She did it to _herself_.”

 

The girl backs away from the Guardian, standing there now, radiating the power of a sun, and seemingly just as immovable.

 

“W-Why would you do that?” she asks in a small, thin voice, incomprehension stark on her face, and Michael understands now that she is perhaps _seeing_ him, as he is, for the first time. “Why would you _torture_ her like that?”

 

“Why not?” he returns implacably. “She tortured your Tardigrade, didn’t she? Kept her from her nest of babies? _You_ wanted her punished, didn’t you?”

 

“Not like this!” she cries; tears are flowing down her face now.

 

“Why not?” he repeats.

 

The child shakes her head and sidles away from him towards Michael; his gaze follows her relentlessly—and she does not take her eyes off him.

 

“Can you still feel her, Miss Michael?” she asks quietly, still holding the Guardian’s gaze. “Your Captain Philippa—can you still feel her?”

 

“Yes,” Michael husks; Philippa’s pain and despair are incredibly present across their bond. “And she’s in so _much_ pain. Where is she? I need to go to her.”

 

“Take my hand and hold tight,” the girl instructs, blindly thrusting her hand out behind her. “Whatever you do, don’t let me go—understood?”

 

Michael rises, and without hesitation, takes the girl’s hand. “I understand,” she replies; the Guardian and the Guide watch them impassively. “Where is Philippa?”

 

“Right here—she’s still right here,” she says in a hard voice to Michael’s utter astonishment. “This is all an illusion. Even what she’s experiencing now is an illusion, only made real by her guilt.”

 

“For what she did to the Tardigrade,” Michael realises, and then remembers the Guardian’s words. _“Your Tardigrade.”_

 

“She was my first friend when I came here,” the child continues as they back away from the pair. “I was really scared of her at first and kept running away from her, but she kept coming after me, and she took care of me because she thinks of me as a Nestling. She understood that I don’t belong here, but that I can’t leave the way she can, so she brought me dreams and stories of the _Otherwheres_ —the other _spore gardens_ , as she sees them—to keep me strong. And I would dream of her on your ship, and I would dream her _pain_ ,” she says looking up at Michael at last.

 

“And it made you angry,” Michael whispers, gazing down into those weary, devastated brown eyes that look too old for such a young face.

 

“Yes,” she replies. “It made me _very_ angry—and I asked for justice, but I never imagined—” She winds her right arm about Michael’s waist, and thrusts the left out, as if to hold another person. “Hold tight to me and don’t let go,” she instructs and Michael complies, winding her left arm about the girl’s waist. “Now, hold tight to your Captain Philippa—she’s right here with you. Hold tight.”

 

And Michael does, pouring all her trust into the child. She concentrates on her bond with Philippa, plunging into that incredible maelstrom of pain that roils within her love, and reaching her right arm out towards the girl’s free hand. The room disappears and they are on the beach again, at the edge of the mycelial forest; and Philippa is there, cradled between her and the girl—deadlocked in whatever vision of hell the Guardian has conjured.

 

“It isn’t _his_ vision of hell, it’s _hers_ ,” the girl explains, helping Michael to lower Philippa to the ground and arrange her so that her head is in Michael’s lap. “ _She_ conjured it, Miss Michael, to punish herself. She thinks that the Tardigrade babies are all dead—he made you and her think that.”

 

“But he never actually said it,” Michael whispers in realisation as she strokes Philippa’s hair. “He accused her of causing the _destruction_ of the _nest_ , but not of causing the _deaths_ of the _offspring_.”

 

“Because they’re not dead—I saved them all,” the girl replies with a sad little smile, surprising Michael again. “There were fifteen, so I took them to some of the other people here and asked them to take one each and take care of them. Then, because there are no real days here, I make rounds of the other nests every so often, and beg spores from the other Tardigrades—or collect whatever’s spilled … the babies are really messy eaters,” she chuckled softly, reaching out to smooth a lock of hair away from Philippa’s damp face. “It isn’t that much, but it’s enough. Dr. Helen and her kids have the most—nine of them—and she’s really good with them … knows exactly what to do. Everybody goes to her if there’s a problem. Then Harry and his girlfriends each took one, so that was another three—and they’re pretty good too, when they’re not doing their three-way smoochy-thing,” she giggles. “They say it keeps things real for them.”

 

 _“Their three-way smoochy-thing?”_ Michael asks in confusion, despite her heightened concern for Philippa; the girl seems to need to talk and Michael senses that it is important to understand her.

 

“You know— _kissing!_ ” she says, and there is an adorable look of embarrassment on her face. Michael realises that she is not simply _young_ , but moreover, quite _innocent_ for her age.

 

“Ah … and do _you_ know … _kissing?_ ”

 

 _“No!”_ she replies indignantly and giggles. “My Mom wouldn’t allow me to date until I turned sixteen, and besides, no one asked me before—” She breaks off with a look of acute despair.

 

“Before you came here?” Michael prods gently. The girl nods sadly and returns her gaze to Philippa. Michael wants to comfort her, but realises that she doesn’t even know her name. “I am Science Specialist Michael Burnham and this is Captain Philippa Georgiou of the Federation starship _Discovery_. May I know your name?”

 

“Lisa,” she replies with a soft sniff, then smiles wanly, tears brimming. “Well, Elisabeth Rose Davies when my Mom yells at me—but that usually only happens when she’s really, really mad; most of the time, I’m just plain Lisa.”

 

“Well, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Elisabeth Rose Davies. And thank you for helping me to get Philippa out of there.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Lisa croaks, and this time her sniffing gives way to tears, alarming Michael somewhat; she’s never had to deal with a crying child before—of any age.

 

“Lisa, what is it?” she asks gently, reaching out to the girl.

 

After a moment, she hiccoughs, “I was just thinking how great it would be to even have my Mom _yell_ at me again.” And then breaks down bawling.

 

“Come,” Michael gestures with her free hand, and after a moment, Lisa crawls closer and tucks into her side. Michael wraps her arm about her as best she can, holding her as she cries into her shoulder.

 

And on top of Philippa’s pain, she begins to feel this child’s.

 

#

 


	13. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be a week overdue, but sometimes life gets away from you. Enjoy!

“Philippa and Michael disappeared from the drive cube for a total of 4.7 seconds according to _Discovery’s_ chronometers,” Katrina explained softly.

 

“The scanners developed for the Tardigrade are adequate for tracking their physical health, and both are now in peak condition—only Michael’s scars remain as evidence of the attack,” Irailo continued. “But the scanners offer little insight into what is truly happening to our ladies; it is as if time is standing still within the confines of the drive cube, yet simultaneously continuing forward.”

 

“Dr. Culber’s scans indicate that there is minute, but increasing, neural activity indicative of consciousness,” Katrina continued. “But it is far below known thresholds of living beings—it’s probably some kind of stasis—and while we are hopeful, we really don’t know _when_ they will wake up. Therefore, we’ve asked Commodore Paris to act as Flag Officer for _Discovery_ in the interim, with Commander Saru as Acting Captain. She was slated to take command of a new R&D starbase, but with the war, its completion has been delayed and—”

 

“I can’t let you—young people—have _all_ the fun, now can I?” Farzaneh teased with a soft chuckle. “And I am also taking lessons from our extraordinary Ms Tilly, captains, as will you, while we get the ships ready for the front. In fact, based on Ms Burnham’s work, aimed at looking beyond the Tardigrade’s mode of _jumping_ —as she felt that using the creature was unsustainable given its increasing distress with each jump—we may even have a way to get there much faster than warp, with a system similar to the current spore drive configuration, but _without_ having to jump across the mycelial plane.”

 

 _“How?”_ Nechayev demanded; the same question burned in Archer’s eyes.

 

“By phasing into the subspace flows associated with the quantum flow fields—basically submerging the ship into _subspace itself_ and by-passing normal space, and the need for warp, altogether,” she explained to their utter astonishment.

 

“I apologise,” Nechayev said abruptly, and Farzaneh regarded her with confusion that was mirrored on everyone’s faces. “For my attitude regarding Ms Burnham,” she continued after a deep breath. “It was unfair to blame her for the war and all the people I’ve lost to it.”

 

“I doubt you could blame her any more than she blames _herself_ , captain,” Farzaneh said hoarsely, thinking of all the other project ideas that Michael Burnham had desperately, and almost compulsively, recorded in her logs as they occurred to her; all to help win the war and gain some measure of respite from her overwhelming _guilt_.

 

Some of Michael’s ideas have extensive notes and plans, a few—like the personal shield—have even made it to the prototype stage, but many others bore just a couple of paragraphs of tantalising descriptions hinting at the most intriguing things; like _“not cloaking, but simple photonic, holographic technology used as stealth overlay to fool Klingon sensors”_ and _“using gamma-centyons and phased_ Orket-ti-tiam  _particles to sweep warp particles from the subspace flow field and effectively dissipate a ship’s warp signature”_. But it was the sheer volume of ideas—covering such a breathtaking expanse of subject matter—that made Farzaneh wonder when the young woman found time to _sleep_ , much less pursue a relationship with Philippa.

 

“The original idea and initial plans are Ms Burnham’s,” th’Zihl said smiling, “but the rapid development of that idea to make it a practical reality is almost entirely due to Commodore Paris, Lieutenant Stamets, Cadet Tilly and their teams’ hard work over the last few days.”

 

Farzaneh chuckled as Nechayev and Archer turned their awed gazes towards her again. “Given such a ground-breaking theory and such brilliant minds to work with, even an ancient science officer from the Dark Ages turned paper-pusher can make a stab at such brilliance, or at least bask in the reflected glow.”

 

“Ha!” Katrina muttered. “No one could even _understand_ what Michael was getting at until _you_ read her project notes. She seems to have been very inspired by Commander Landry’s adaptation of “anti-submarine warfare tactics” to use against the Klingons, that she figured she would take it whole hog and turn _Discovery_ into a sort of _space submarine!_ ”

 

“Ms Burnham has a positive _genius_ for turning existing technology on its head and looking at it from the inside out,” Farzaneh explained, grinning the two flabbergasted captains, unable to hide her own enthusiasm.

 

It has been a _long_ time since a project involving pure science and engineering has inspired her like this; it was part of the reason she’d been looking forward to commanding the new starbase with its shipyards that were to be testbeds for new starship designs, not to mention its extensive labs, and cutting-edge research and development.

 

“The beauty of it is that almost every component needed for this new mode of faster than light travel is already present in Stamets’ and Straal’s displacement-activated spore hub drive, captains,” she said, savouring their blatant awe. “They just need to be _configured_ differently and it needs a rather … _different_ drive control and navigation system than what was developed for the Tardigrade.”

 

“A new drive control system?” Archer queried in confusion.

 

Katrina nodded and laughed. “Well it was either that or using eugenics experimentation with Tardigrade DNA on someone in order to continue using the current control system—that was Burnham’s first suggestion for controlling the reconfigured spore drive. Like Farzaneh said, this new form of FTL is quite similar to jumping through the mycelial plane … except … well, it _doesn’t_ —which is a good thing, considering Michael’s message regarding the damage we’re doing and the likely reactions from beings there if we continue,” she finished more soberly.

 

“Lieutenant Stamets and Dr. Shrath are leading the teams that are reconfiguring _Discovery’s_ spore drive to a _subspace submersion drive_ ,” Farzaneh continued, “and given that Philippa and Michael are still confined to the drive cube for the foreseeable future, developing an entirely new control system—outside of that—seemed eminently logical. Cadet Tilly and I are tackling that aspect; she knows the drive systems inside out and I’ve got a few _old_ tricks up my sleeve,” she chuckled. These young people—in fact, friends or not, most of the people around the table—would probably think her mad if they knew that her inspiration for the new control system came from her Thomas’ childhood obsession with ancient comic books and the various _X-Men_ series in particular. No, it would be better to present it as a working _fait accompli_ rather than be ridiculed as _mad_.

 

“And my science and engineering teams are also onboard  _Discovery_ , captains, to learn about this new drive system and its implementation by helping with the conversion,” th’Zihl explained, “All with the intention of not only _building_ new _Crossfield_ ships around this new drive, but also refitting and building new conventional starships with it as well. As Ms Burnham’s notes suggests, while they may not be able to reach as far into subspace and therefore utilize the deeper currents of the flow fields to travel as fast as the _Crossfield_ ships would be able to when submerged, conventional starships will still be able to take advantage of this technology to navigate the shallower currents closer to the space-subspace interface. That will mean travelling a hundred light years in _ten hours_ instead of the _two_ it could theoretically take a  _Crossfield_ —or the _ten days_ it would take a new _Constitution_ Class starship at warp 15.”

 

“And not even a _Connie_ can currently sustain ten days at warp 15—or even _ten minutes_ ,” Nechayev said in awe. “You’re apt to fly the ship apart first.”

 

“Exactly captain,” he replied.

 

“Isn’t it rather … _ambitious_ to effectively plan to build fleets of new starships around such experimental and _untested_ technologies,” Archer said carefully.

 

The Director of Shipbuilding laughed heartily. “And by  _ambitious_ you mean _reckless_ , captain,” he said, antennae twitching. “And yes, I suppose it is rather reckless—but cementing ourselves into a glacier of conventional starship doctrine and tactics is not what’s finally winning the war for us. Quite frankly, captains, Starfleet was stagnating, and it took radical, far-thinking minds like Lieutenant Stamets’, Ms Burnham’s and Cadet Tilly’s to shake us free of the complacency that comes with such stagnation, and a captain like Georgiou to support them and give them the freedom to explore such radical ideas. And we’re not giving up on conventional warp—not by a long shot. In fact, my people are now seeing ways to make our warp systems even more robust and efficient in terms of matter-antimatter exchange and plasma conduit containment. Furthermore, _Discovery_ has already demonstrated it is an effective testbed for proving much of this technology.”

 

“ _Discovery_ has become a touchstone … a catalyst, and we old fossils are being inspired again by her crew—not only Ms Burnham,” April added. “Captain JJ—ah Will Jefferies Junior—is already on board working with Commander Airiam, Lieutenant Owosekun and our ubiquitous Cadet Tilly on an idea for building strong battleshields based on Burnham’s improvisation of using the ship’s phasic shields in normal space to protect it from the plasma mines. And my communications head is chomping at the bit to pick Lieutenant Bryce’s brain regarding his subspace radio jamming technique—and, not to mention, using the lower subspace radio bands to _eavesdrop_ on communications between enemy ships!”

 

“That’s the _least_ of what Captain Sato-Reed is chomping to get at Bryce for!” Katrina snorted, and hilarity filled the room again, much to the consternation of the two captains present. She took pity on them and sobered quickly. “While Captain Philippa Georgiou may now be the Klingons’ new _Fek’lhr_ —a boogeyman and devil incarnate to give them nightmares—in addition to Burnham and Tilly, Lieutenant Bryce and Commander Landry are the true _hell spawn demons_ they _should_ be afraid of.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Nechayev said, voicing their obvious confusion.

 

“Ms Burnham, Commander Landry and Cadet Tilly may have orchestrated much of _Discovery’s_ military strategy that resulted in those impressive kill numbers, but it was Landry and Bryce who orchestrated Philippa’s _coup de grace_ that have the Klingons _shitting_ themselves with fear!” April growled pungently.

 

“On the morning _Discovery_ went to Khitomer, Captain Georgiou executed an unauthorised jump to Qo’noS and pulled a Doolittle Raid without firing a shot—at least no weapons’ ordinances were expended,” Farzaneh said chuckling, still tickled each time she thought about it. “No captains, Landry and Bryce provided Captain Georgiou with _weapons of mass confusion_ , and she literally _bombed_ almost _every city on Qo’noS_ with them—including the capital city and the Imperial Palace.”

 

Katrina had the holo queued up and started it with a soft chuckle as the younger officers gaped in utter shock. Rolling, pounding piano dominated, radically different from the music that had been emanating from _Discovery’s_ engine room, and it filled the office with a chorus of voices singing, _“Fight, fight, fight, fight …”_

 

Philippa stood at the apex of a wedge of her officers, crew and civilian specialists in the mess hall; all stood at parade rest with their hands clasped behind them, back-dropped against the nebula outside the panoramic viewports. They were absolutely silent, and while the majority of the crew was human, the alien members were also very prominent.

 

Race, life's a race

And I'm gonna win

Yes, I'm gonna win

I'll light the fuse

And I'll never lose

And I choose to survive

_(So, I told you!)_

Whatever it takes

You won't pull ahead

I'll keep up the pace

And I'll reveal my strength

To the whole human race

Yes, I am prepared

_(You were warned and didn't listen!)_

To stay alive

I won't forgive

Vengeance is mine

And I won't give in

Because I choose to thrive

Yeah, I'm gonna win!

 

Race!

_(So, I told you!)_

It's a race

But I'm gonna win

Yes, I'm gonna win

I will light the fuse

I'll never lose

I choose to survive

_(You were warned and didn't listen!)_

Whatever it takes

You won't pull ahead

Because I'll keep up the pace

And I'll reveal my strength

To the whole human race

Yes, I'm gonna win!

 

_Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!_

_Win! Win! Win! Win!_

 

_Yes, I'm gonna win!_

 

For four minutes and 15 seconds, Philippa and her people stood absolutely still with solemn, determined looks on their faces while the song played. As it came to its pulsating, orgasmic end full of wailing guitars, throbbing bass, pounding piano and drums, and screaming vocals, she stepped forward.

 

 _“I am Philippa Georgiou, captain of the_ United Starfleet Ship Discovery  _hailing the Klingon Empire. I come in peace, and I extend an invitation from the United Federation of Planets to you, Chancellor Kol of the House of Kor, your generals and advisors, to meet us on neutral ground to find a way to end this war. I offered peace once before to Lord T’Kuvma, but it was summarily rejected; I hope you are a wiser leader than he was._

_“Too many of our brave warriors on both sides have lost their lives in this war and we are_ all  _diminished by it; yes, we too are_ warriors _. And it is because we are warriors, and know the_ consequences of war _, that we were hesitant to start this conflict and sought to avoid it before it began. I invite you to examine the music players we’ve beamed all over the surface of your planet, as well as the dioramas we’ve beamed onto the lawns of the Imperial Palace and other prominent buildings in each of your cities, if you wish to hear more songs of war and bravery from the myriad worlds that make up our Federation … or learn more about_ our  _great battles and wars. If you wish to learn … if you wish to preserve the lives of the glorious and brave young men and women who are your future, then come to the peace table._

_“If you do not wish to learn … if you do not wish for there to be peace … then_ know this;  _I am resolved to winning_ _this war by_ any  _means necessary. And if I have to return to Qo’noS, I will_ not  _acquiesce again to_ _my very_ young and idealistic  _officers’ request … and it will_ not  _be music players that I will be beaming onto_ _the surface of your world!”_

 

“Oh, my _fucking_ God!” Nechayev swore, blue eyes wide and round like proverbial saucers.

 

“My sentiments exactly, captain,” Katrina chuckled.

 

But if Nechayev’s blatant swearing came as a surprise, Archer’s raucous, side-splitting laughter was even more so. Everyone—including his lover—stared in shock at the young man’s descent into utter hilarity.

 

 _“N-n-no w-wonder!”_ he stuttered, as he banged his hand repeatedly against the table. “Oh, dear _God_ , no wonder!”

 

As he finally wound down after a few minutes, hiccoughing and drying his tears, he regarded them with a positively wolfish grin. “Sirs, how well-known is it that Captain Georgiou took _Discovery_ to Qo’noS?”

 

“I’ve tried to keep a tight rein on that information,” Louis-Georges replied quietly, “but it is known to Starfleet’s High Command—the fact that it was _unauthorised_ and that Captain Georgiou made such a … _forceful_ and unilateral invitation to the peace table, is part of what has much of the Admiralty turning against her. Many are still conscious of the atrocities perpetuated by madmen like Kodos, as well as the continuing threat of others like Captain Garth, although he’s currently confined to a secure psychiatric facility.”

 

“And how serious are you about getting in front of this and keeping Captain Georgiou’s fat out of the fire, even if it doesn’t paint the Admiralty in a good light?” he asked soberly now.

 

“Extremely serious, captain,” Picard replied. “Starfleet and the Federation owe Captain Georgiou and her crew more than we can ever repay—and I, _personally_ , owe Philippa more than you can _ever_ know.”

 

“Then we need to make use of a very large and potent resource that you’ve overlooked, Admiral Picard,” he said and they all regarded him, intrigued now. “Last night … well, this morning really … one of my distant cousins, a cocky little pain in the ass named Lieutenant James Tiberius Kirk—who, because of medical leave, and more importantly, because of his unorthodox reprogramming of the _Kobayashi Maru_ exam a couple of years ago, is at this moment teaching a class in _“Tactics and Innovative Thinking”_ at Starfleet Academy—got me out of bed at 0200 hours to help him deal with two of his cadets and a bunch of their classmates and friends, including one Cadet Augin Mirzakhani Paris,” he said, looking directly at Farzaneh; the twinkle in his eyes indicated that he enjoyed her surprise entirely too much.

 

“Apparently, the cadets are up in arms, and on the verge of rioting, not only about the rumour that Captain Philippa Georgiou, a previous Starfleet Academy guest lecturer in years past—for _“Tactics and Innovative Thinking”_ and _“The Art of Starship Diplomacy”_ —was going to be court martialled—but get this—because the admiralty is out to get her _for going to the Klingon homeworld_ and threatening to _bomb them back to the stone age_ , if they didn’t get their _asses_ to peace table!”

 

 _“What?”_ Picard roared dangerously as the young man laughed; even his lover gaped at him in shock. “Where did they get this information?”

 

“Not from any _official_ Starfleet source, admiral,” he replied still chuckling. “They were pretty cagey about giving me anything but a couple of still photographs and letting me know that they had a recording of Captain Georgiou that they are only too _happy_ to start circulating as a companion to the one that’s currently making the rounds. Apparently, Cadet Gaila Hexis-Kyse, one of only two Orion cadets to ever attend the Academy—the other being her older brother—received a communique from her uncle, an Orion merchant captain who trades with the Klingon homeworld … where they apparently have an _embassy_ … and by that read: _lawless red-light district_. Dear Uncle couldn’t reach his sister, who happens to be Cadet Gaila’s godmother—something about her being _incognito_ studying _mushrooms_ on some Federation science vessel—and he wanted to know, “ _when the_ fuck  _did Starfleet grow balls big enough to send a warship to issue ultimatums to the Klingons”_ and where he could get a ship like _Discovery_!”

 

Enjoying their jaw-dropping shock, he sent a file from his PADD to the holo-projector; it was a still photo of _Discovery_ , her shields glowing against the sky catching fire, as she hovered above the Imperial Palace on Qo’noS like a mythical firebird. Her distinctive hull, as well as her insignia and name, were unmistakeable.

 

“Cadet Gaila _naturally_ shared her bounty with her roommate—one Cadet Nyota Uhura, who just happens to be one of our top up and coming _communications_ specialists, and who speaks about _eight_ languages, including two Klingon dialects and three Romulan dialects—not to mention Vulcan and Andorian. Cadet Uhura _naturally_ made short work of translating some very interesting interviews with ordinary Klingons on the street, many of them _very_ disillusioned young people, and—from what was said last night—those youth have been quick to see that Captain Georgiou could very well _bomb them back to the stone age_. They are royally pissed off at their leadership for dragging their heels in responding to her ultimatum and are _actually_ starting to riot!

 

“Also, according to Uhura, whoever put together the playlist was a certified genius!” he said, laughing at their flabbergasted expressions. “The Klingon authorities have apparently been confiscating as many of the music players as quickly as they can, but a lot of them are getting into the hands of those young people and they’re _extremely_ popular—and Gaila’s uncle noted that the Klingon youth are even having what sounds like _underground parties_ in old, abandoned temples to share and exchange the music. He sent a playlist to her, and Uhura, who has been intensively studying Klingon culture in conjunction with their language since the war started, is of the opinion that whoever chose the music couldn’t have made better choices to showcase the species of the Federation’s prowess in battle—everything from Terran Rock ’n Roll, to the Vulcan Hero Cycles of Sorak and T’Pren, to Andorian Battledrum Epics, to Kelpien Herd Protector Songs! And that is making _all_ the difference to the Klingon youth seeing us as _honourable warriors_ , sir.”

 

 _“Mon Dieu!”_ Picard whispered, voicing their collective shock.

 

“We need to harness this and make it work for us,” Archer said seriously now, “but without compromising our cadets and ruining their careers before they start. I told Jim to sit on them while I met with you all today, sir. But these young people are our future, sir. And if _Starfleet_ , as they announced this morning, insists on these _hearings_ , which we all know will end in _court martialling_ a captain who has gone so far above and beyond _duty_ to turn the tide of this war and, indeed, perhaps _end it_ , as well as a brilliant young cadet for defending her wounded and helpless captain—what message will we be sending to all those _“glorious and brave young men and women”_ , to borrow Captain Georgiou’s turn of phrase, whom we are _expecting_ to send out there to put their _lives_ on the line? I’ll tell you right now what that message will be—that Starfleet isn’t worth it … that the _Federation_ isn’t worth their lives! And they’d be _right_.”

 

“What are you proposing, Captain Archer?” Farzaneh asked hoarsely; she knew her youngest son, and there was no way Augin was going to sit idly by and let Starfleet court martial his godmother … his _Auntie Pippa!_

 

“Given your relationship to one of the cadets, Commodore Paris, I don’t think you should _officially_ _know_ ,” he said gently and she nodded her acceptance; under the table, Katrina slipped her hand over Farzaneh’s and held it tightly. “But I will say that this is the time of their lives when idealistic young people begin to look at their society and see the injustices and hypocrisies … and in the past, it has led Human youths, at least, to engage in that venerable old tradition of the _Student Protest_ ,” he said as laughter shook the room again, but this time there was an edge of relief to it. “I left them with the project of researching the concept today with Jim, but Cadet Paris did ask me to ask you, ma’am, if you expected him to make use of his ethics lessons.”

 

She chuckled softly. “Please tell Cadet Paris my answer is _yes_ , captain; as both his Mom and Commodore Paris, I _fully_ expect him to make _very_ good use of his ethics lessons, but to also remember that the classroom is very different from real life.”

 

His eyes widened, perceptibly impressed with her response. “You and your son know each other very well, commodore,” he said, shaking his head in amusement. “Cadet Paris said to tell you that he’ll remember that real life is pretty messy in comparison to the classroom and that he will try not to embarrass you and _Captain Pippa_ any more than he did when he was fifteen and decided to become a nudist.”

 

Farzaneh couldn’t help but grin at the memory of the two months that particular phase lasted. “That’s good to know, captain,” she replied.

 

“And I think, ma’am, you should prepare yourself for an Orion girlfriend, if not daughter-in-law, given the way Cadet Gaila was looking at Cadet Paris after that remark,” he said chuckling.

 

Farzaneh met Katrina’s gaze and both burst out laughing. “Then I’d say that Cadet Gaila has her work cut out for her, captain, and I wish her luck, but I wouldn’t hold my breath on that one!” Katrina chortled.

 

Farzaneh watched the realisation dawn on Archer’s face as Nechayev and the others laughed good-naturedly. “ _Ah_ … I take it Cadet Gaila’s _brother_ would have a better chance with Cadet Paris?” he asked.

 

“A _much_ better chance, captain,” she chuckled as she gathered up her PADD, squeezing Katrina’s shoulder as she took her leave, still a bit apprehensive at Augin getting caught up in this turmoil, but feeling much lighter than when she’d arrived.

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song quoted is Muse's "Survival" (2012)


	14. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another late-night posting. LOL! Life's been difficult for the last little while, but it is what it is. Enjoy this bit.

“How do I help Philippa?” Michael asks Lisa after the girl’s cries have quieted to soft sniffles for a few minutes. She is still tucked into Michael’s side, arms wound tightly around her waist. “She is in a great deal of pain.”

 

“What is she like?” Lisa counters instead of replying to her question.

 

“She’s a great captain—one of Starfleet’s most decorated—”

 

“No. Beyond that … beyond all those bits of her life Tam showed us. What is _she_ like—the woman? Why do you love her, Miss Michael?” she asks pulling away slightly and meeting Michael’s gaze steadily. “You do love her, don’t you? As a girlfriend … as a _wife_?”

 

“Yes, I do love her, as one would a wife,” Michael admits—and for the first time, she admits it to _herself_ that she wants Philippa for her _wife_. “We haven’t made any formal vows yet; nothing beyond letting her superiors know of our relationship, and disclosing it to my … parole officer.”

 

“Your parole officer?” Lisa squeaks, eyes wide with shock as Michael smiles ruefully. “You mean … like you mean you’re some kind of _criminal?_ ”

 

Michael chuckles softly at the girl’s consternation. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s … _complicated_.”

 

“Well, then _un_ -complicate it,” she demands. “She knows you’re a criminal and still loves you?”

 

“Yes,” Michael replies simply, looking down at Philippa’s beautiful, tortured face; she needs to be completely honest, with this girl and with _herself_. “You see, my crime was against _her_ —” The girl gasps audibly and Michael forces herself to continue. “Against her captaincy of the _USS Shenzhou_. Do you know what a mutiny is?”

 

“Yes; it’s when a crew overthrows the captain and takes over the ship, isn’t it?”

 

“That is correct. I assaulted her and rendered her unconscious, in order to take over the _Shenzhou_ and fire first on an alien species known as the Klingons when we came into conflict with them.” Lisa stares at her, eyes wide with horrified comprehension; Michael swallows the painful knot in her throat. “It was how my foster father’s people, the Vulcans, have always dealt with the Klingons—fire first and fire hard … _make_ them respect you through superior firepower. But it was not the Starfleet way; it was not _Philippa’s_ way. She felt that the diplomatic way needed to be tried first … that the Klingons could be reasoned with—she couldn’t believe … couldn’t  _comprehend_ that their leader T’Kuvma actually _wanted_ a war … needed a war to unite his people’s warring factions against a common enemy.

 

“But that was also the day I finally understood that I _loved_ her with all my being … my _katra_ … my soul,” Michael continues, tears spilling now as she gazes down at Philippa. “And all I could see was the Klingons doing to Philippa what they’d done to my father … and to my _mother_ —and I could _not_ let _that_ happen to her! It all went wrong and she tried to redeem me by following my suggestion of capturing T’Kuvma to stop the war, but he nearly killed her and I killed _him_ , making him a _martyr_ and making everything so much _worse_.”

 

“You saw your parents die?” Lisa whispers mournfully.

 

“Yes.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“I was nine,” Michael replies. “My parents hid me in a cabinet—all I could do was huddle at the back and watch. Afterwards, the Klingons sat down at our table and ate our dinner while my parents bled out at their feet. They should have been able to detect me on their scanners … they probably did, but they probably thought I wasn’t a threat. They were right—I was small for my age and far too terrified.”

 

Lisa reaches in to hug her tightly. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Thank you. To answer your question, Philippa is quite literally the best person I know; she’s brave and kind, and she’s not only my captain, she’s my best friend. She’s known a life of incredible loss and pain, and she could have allowed it to make her embittered, but she didn’t; instead, for over thirty years, she has used it help her protect others … to protect all the people of our Federation, to the best of her abilities. I served under her leadership for seven years, moving up _Shenzhou’s_ ranks from ensign to commander, and was promoted by the admiralty to first officer about a year before the war started. I’m not sure when my feelings for her began to change, but I began to realise that they were changing long before that last year—it’s just … well, I’d never been in love before, so I didn’t _know_ really until that last day when I was faced with the Klingons and all I could think about was protecting her.”

 

“You’d  _never_ been in love before?” Lisa asks, rearing back to gape at her.

 

“No,” she replies with a rueful laugh. “I suppose it never really came up—”

 

 _“Huh?”_ The girl is more than shocked; she is absolutely flabbergasted. “ _It never came up!_ You’re what? Like twenty-five … _thirty?_ ”

 

“Thirty-one—”

 

“How do you get to be _that old_ without having fallen in _love?_ ” she asks, outraged. “What about _high school_ , for crying out loud? I may only be fifteen and haven’t kissed anyone yet, but I’d _planned_ to and there was this guy that I _knew_ I liked, if I could get up enough courage to talk to him!”

 

Michael chuckles softly. “I suppose if I’d grown up on Earth, I probably would have participated in Human adolescent rituals like dating, kissing and touching, but I grew up on Vulcan, so that wasn’t really a cultural _thing_ —although my foster mother, Amanda, is Human. A Vulcan child’s marriage is usually arranged by the … _Family Matriarch_ when they’re young, or by their parents. My younger brother Spock is a Vulcan-Human hybrid; by the time his parents adopted me, he’d already been betrothed by Family Matriarch, the Priestess T’Pau, to a young girl named T’Pring. When the time is right, they will be formally bound to each other.”

 

“So, what … because you were a full Human, this T’Pau didn’t care to arrange your _entire_ life?”

 

“More like _Amanda_ wouldn’t let her,” Michael replies, grateful for her foster mother’s foresight now. “I think that because she’d been younger and newer at navigating Vulcan society, she allowed T’Pau to betroth Spock because she didn’t want to step on their traditions. But by the time I came along, she’d been married to Sarek for nearly a decade, Spock was in school and adjusting well, and she was more confident about her place in society. She put her foot down—I was a _Human_ child, and whereas some Vulcan practices were appropriate for me to learn and participate in, others were less relevant, not applicable or entirely  _inappropriate_. She felt that I would eventually come to resent them if they bound me to a person I didn’t know, and as Humans tended to be more fluid in their sexual and gender identities than most Vulcans, betrothing me before I’d matured enough to understand myself was not only inappropriate, but highly _illogical_.”

 

“Well,  _duh_ … of course it’s _illogical!_ ” Lisa scoffs, outraged. “And when it comes to cultures and traditions, a lot of them can be pretty _darned_ _illogical_.”

 

Michael laughs. “Don’t tell that to a Vulcan,” she says and Lisa looks confused again. “I’ll tell you a secret—which is not so secret—they’ve built their entire society around logic … even things an outsider would see as perfectly _illogical_. Telling them that they were being illogical practically _guaranteed_ that Amanda would win her argument, because no Vulcan wants to be told that they are acting illogically—especially when they are! The only thing worse than being told they’re being illogical, is being told that they’re being emotional—Vulcans do have emotions, but they don’t express them as it might lead to violence and illogical thinking.”

 

“Well, if they’re all unemotional and logical-like and engaged to be _married_ practically before they can _talk_ , how did this Sarek end up married to Amanda? Shouldn’t he have had a _Vulcan_ wife?”

 

Michael smiles at her in admiration. “You’re _very_ smart;I didn’t think to ask that question until I’d been living with them for over a year. I spent that year—indeed, most of my youth—emulating Sarek, trying to be a logical and unemotional Vulcan, while Amanda found me counsellors who tried to get me to act more like the illogical and emotional _Human_ I was. It didn’t work terribly well; the best she managed was another Vulcan and Human couple, mentors who finally got me to start having a little fun again, under the guise of learning Vulcan meditative arts and a Vulcan martial art called _Sha’mura_. It was only after I started serving on _Shenzhou_ … only after Philippa became my mentor that I stopped trying to be an unemotional Vulcan and started really embracing what it meant to be Human. Over the years, she slowly drew me out of that shell of Vulcan logic and discipline I’d cocooned myself in, but she never made me feel _less_ for wanting to be Vulcan—not until I attacked her.”

 

“Why would you want to be Vulcan?”

 

“I suppose … to my child mind, I thought that if I didn’t have emotions, I wouldn’t have to feel the pain that always seemed to overwhelm me whenever I thought about my birth parents.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s all right,” Michael assures her, pulling her close again in a one-armed hug. “I’m still coming to terms with it, slowly but surely. Anyway, Sarek was indeed married to a Vulcan woman of a very ancient lineage—you might even call her a princess, although most Vulcans haven’t used such titles in a very _long_ time. Her name was T’Rea, and they have a son called Sybok. However, they weren’t very compatible and T’Rea wanted to pursue a meditative discipline called _kolinahr_ , to purge herself of all emotion and devote her life entirely to the pursuit of logic and the teachings and philosophies of Surak, so they divorced. Sarek met Amanda after he became ambassador to Earth about thirty years ago. But, whenever I’d asked him why he married Amanda, he would always say, _“it was logical.”_ I learned from Amanda, years later, that whenever he said that phrase, he was really saying that he _loved_ her.”

 

“Because if he loved her, it was _logical_ to marry her,” Lisa says with a thoughtful look.

 

“Exactly,” Michael affirms. “And he neatly got around having to admit to having such an _emotional_ response.”

 

 _“Sneaky!”_ she giggles. “It’s like the phrase _“As you wish”_ from the movie _The Princess Bride_ , which the hero Westley uses to mean _“I love you”_ when Princess Buttercup orders him around. Aww, that is _so_ cute!”

 

Michael laughs. “I doubt Sarek would appreciate being referred to as _cute_ , but you’re right, it is rather _cute_ of him—and Amanda would probably get the reference for that movie, given her love for the art form—”

 

A wave of anguish crashes over her like a tsunami and it takes Michael a moment to remember to breathe.

 

“I really need to get to Philippa, Lisa,” she whispers urgently. “She is in such terrible pain.”

 

Lisa nods and moves to kneel in front of Michael. “I can show you how to get to the threshold of her illusion, but I don’t think I should go into it with you, because it’s like going into her mind … invading her privacy, and she won’t know or trust me.”

 

She bites her lip and looks away; her pain and guilt are almost as overwhelming as Philippa’s. “But to show you how to get to her, I’ll have to show you … _me_. The _real_ me.”

 

“The real you?” Michael asks gently, both apprehensive and intrigued at the same time.

 

“I’m not brave or much of anything, really,” she replies hoarsely, anxiety tightening her features. “In fact, I’m a pretty big _coward_ —I’m trying to be better, but I even get stage fright to the point where I can’t breathe. And I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up … nearly _failed_ my Career Day project—I mean, who does _that?_ My mom wants me to be a singer—I guess, _wanted_ m-me to be one,” she hiccoughs, crying now. “She’s a great singer—she used to sing back up for all the big acts when they came to town, and she even got signed once by a record label. But then my dad died in an accident driving home from work one day, and she had to give up her dreams to take care of me … get a regular job as a secretary and office manager to pay the bills. I—I’ll never see her again, will I?” she whispers, looking imploringly at Michael through her tears.

 

“I’m sorry,” Michael answers with regret and Lisa nods, swiping her tears with her sleeve.

 

“I kind of figured that on Earth, time moved on without me—seeing that our Captain Philippa is a _space ship_ captain and all, and you grew up on an _alien planet_ ,” she says with a watery giggle.

 

“That is the thing about time; it inevitably moves on, no matter how much we wish to freeze it in a single moment. It moves on, and so must we—”

 

“Until we must stop—until _time_ stops us,” the extraordinary girl finishes her thought. “Okay,” she says quietly after a moment. “Tam says that as we each spend our lives trying to understand the universe, we are each the universe trying to understand itself.” She giggles softly again. “Dr. Helen says that he’s just a frustrated poet who really needed to have found himself an open mic stage somewhere to satisfy his poetic soul, but since he couldn’t leave this place, and we’re a captive audience, we get treated to his _poetic frustrations_.”

 

Michael remains silent and lets her just speak.

 

“But this is me—I don’t know what the universe is trying to figure out in a girl who’s frightened of practically _everything_ , up to and including her own shadow, but this is me, Mimi,” she mutters looking away, ashamed as she offers her hand. Michael is startled by the new nickname, but takes her hand. “These are my illusions and this is how one tortures oneself … how ma—how _Philippa_ tortures herself.”

 

#

 

 _“Lisa! How could you? Have you no_ respect  _for your father?”_

 

A woman in a black dress grabs a soaking wet little girl about seven years of age, shaking her violently. In addition to being wet, child-Lisa’s black dress is also covered with splotches of mud. An impish smile fades quickly from the child’s face as the woman glares angrily at her.

 

Michael’s Lisa stands behind her child-self, looking down at her with infinite sadness.

 

 _“Marjorie—enough! Leave her alone,”_ a tired, defeated woman’s voice says. _“Lisa, go to your room and change your clothes.”_

 

 _“Can I wear my yellow dress, Mommy?”_ the child asks hopefully, as her mother enters also wearing black, with a string of pearls at her throat. She is petite and quite beautiful, Michael thinks, but palpable devastation lingers about her like fog. _“You said I have to sing for him and Daddy really likes it! He says I look like_ sunshine _!”_

 

_“Christ Diana! Have you even told her that James is dead?”_

 

 _“Don’t yell at Mommy, Auntie Margie!”_ little Lisa screams, her voice high and shrill as she moves to stand between her mother and the angry woman. _“She did tell me that Daddy died. He had to go to heaven to be with the angels, but he’s watching over me! He’ll always be watching over me—Mommy said so!”_ she shouts with the conviction of the unshakeable law that is her mother’s word.

 

_“You little—”_

 

 _“Go upstairs now, Lisa,”_ her mother says gently; she is the one to step now between her daughter and Marjorie’s raised hand. _“Take a shower and put on your sunshine dress. Be real quick about it, okay baby. We have to leave soon to go to the church, and we can’t be late.”_

 

 _“Okay, Mommy.”_ She eyes her aunt, suspicion plain on her open face. _“Will you be all right?”_

 

_“I’ll be fine, sweetheart; go quickly.”_

 

Child-Lisa nods and runs up the stairs. Michael’s Lisa is pulled along behind her, like a balloon tethered by an unseen string; Michael follows. When she reaches the top, the girl flattens against the wall and meets Michael’s gaze as her younger self runs into the bedroom. Until now, neither Lisa has seemed aware of Michael’s presence in the illusion; tears flow silently down girl’s face. The women’s voices float up to them.

 

 _“You’re my big sister, and I love you, Margie; but don’t you ever dare speak to my daughter like that again, or raise your hand to strike her!”_ Diana says with quiet venom.

 

 _“She’s a spoiled brat!”_ Marjorie hisses unapologetically. _“Look at the way she acted at that audition I set up for her a couple of months ago. All she had to do was sing one stupid song and she could have had a part in that kids’ show—instead she threw that disgraceful tantrum, and you and James let her! I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life! And that producer may never talk to me again.”_

 

_“She was only six then, and you know how terrified she gets when she has to sing for strangers … for people she doesn’t know. She had nightmares for weeks after that audition.”_

 

 _“No! James spoiled her and_ you _spoiled her, Diana,”_ Marjorie retorted heatedly. _“She lives in a fantasy world and you’re doing her no favours now by coddling her, spinning fairy stories of angels and heaven—we were practically her age when Mom died and Dad made us_ face reality _.”_

 

 _“Her—her age?”_ Diana sputters incredulously. _“She’s only seven! I was_ ten  _years old and you were_ eleven _, nearly twelve when Mom died; there is a_ big difference  _between seven and ten. You can’t expect a child that age to fully understand what death means—”_

 

 _“What’s there to understand? He’s_ dead  _and he’s never coming back! And all he left you are a mountain of debt and this house—because, of course, his_ princess  _just had to have a backyard to play in! He could have saved a lot money by renting someplace small, instead he squandered_ everything  _on this white elephant!”_

 

_“That’s not fair! You don’t know that, especially with rents going up the way they are, always leaving you at the mercy of a landlord!”_

 

 _“And being at the mercy of a_ bank  _is so much better?”_ Marjorie sneered. _“How are you going to pay the mortgage by yourself? Because of_ his  _short sightedness, you’re giving up your career—you’re giving up a_ recording contract _, Diana! Everything we’ve worked so hard for since you were sixteen … all to take care of his brat!”_

 

 _“She’s not a brat! She’s our baby—my baby! Why can’t you understand that, Marjorie?”_ Diana cries now and it’s painful for Michael to witness Lisa’s heartbreak at her mother’s devastation. _“I don’t have a choice! I can’t take her on the road with me—it’s no place for a child—and there’s no one I can leave her with. As you’re always quick to point out, you have your own life to lead, and there’s no place in it for Lisa.”_

 

Diana sobs softly as she continues; the defeat is plain in her voice, and so is the desperation. _“I can still get gigs doing back-up vocals and session work, and I’ve already got a part-time job at Mr. Morales’ autobody business as his office manager, Margie—he only needs me two days a week and on Saturdays, so I can go back to school—”_

 

 _“And become what? A_ secretary _?”_ Marjorie screeches.

 

“I didn’t understand this argument for a long time,” Lisa whispers guiltily. “All I understood was that Mom and Aunt Margie spent most of the day of Daddy’s funeral yelling at each other.”

 

 _“There’s_ nothing  _wrong with being a secretary,”_ Diana says icily. _“Besides, it will only take about a year for me to get my Business Administration certificate in the program at the community college Mr. Morales showed me. And his brother-in-law is a doctor, whose office administrator is almost sixty-five, so she’ll be retiring in less than eighteen months. If I work hard and fast, I can have my certificate by then, and with Mr. Morales’ recommendation, I have a good chance of getting the job. It’s a stable job and it pays really well!”_

 

“If your Philippa loves you as you said, you will be in her illusion,” she continues in that low, hoarse voice. “You’ll be an important part of it, and you’ll have to will yourself to become her version of you in the illusion, so that you can interact with her. It’s pretty easy—and dangerous—to do when you’re the author of the illusion, but you can lose yourself in it; it’s not so easy to do when someone else is the author, but it’s just as dangerous, because if they’re stronger than you, they can overwhelm you and _trap_ you in the illusion.”

 

Lisa’s eyes tear up as her child-self leaves the bedroom in a pretty yellow dress, skipping past and heading back down the stairs. Lisa grabs her from behind and slowly fades into the child, who looks over her shoulder at Michael while picking her way carefully down the stairs.

 

“But you can’t just break her illusion or try to yank her out, Miss Michael,” comes the sweet, childish treble as Michael again follows. “You’ll either cause her a lot of pain, or drive her deeper into the illusion. You have to remember that she’s in that illusion because she _wants_ to be there, and she is in pain because she _believes_ that she _deserves_ it. But what you also have to realise is that on some level, we always know it’s an illusion, no matter how much we try to deny it and there are always little breaks and cracks and triggers—that’s what you have to look for, Mimi, and that’s when you’ll have to guide her out of that world she’s constructed … help her to understand that it isn’t real and that she’s still in this place. She has to _want_ to leave her illusion.”

 

 _“There you are, sweetheart,”_ Diana says, coming towards Lisa with a gentle smile; Marjorie watches them sourly.

 

Diana helps her daughter to put on a light, black cardigan over her yellow dress, then sits down on the sofa, pulling the little girl into her lap to brush and braid her hair; Lisa smiles happily. When her mother is done, Lisa throws her arms around her mother, snuggling in as close as she can get.

 

“Do you think she’ll like me, Mimi?” she asks anxiously; she is so small and vulnerable as she burrows deeper into her mother’s lap. “Even though I’m not brave or anything—do you think your Captain Philippa will like me?”

 

And suddenly, Michael knows what Lisa is _really_ asking and _why_ she chooses to ask from the safety of her _mother’s_ lap. And it terrifies her, even though she knows the answer immediately.

 

“She’ll  _love_ you, Lisa,” Michael assures her without hesitation. “ _Philippa will love you!_ And _I_ love you. You are a brave,  _wonderful_ girl—don’t let anyone tell you differently. It’s all right to be afraid—it is Human—but being afraid, does not mean that you aren’t _brave_. From everything I’ve seen of you so far, you are an incredibly _brave and clever_ young woman.”

 

 _“What are you going to sing today?”_ Marjorie grudgingly asks.

 

 _“I’m going to sing,_ ‘Amazing Grace’ _, because it’s Daddy’s favourite church song,”_ the little girl replies as Lisa separates again from her younger self. She dries her eyes with trembling fingers before holding both hands out to Michael.

 

“Hold tight and don’t let go, Mimi; no matter what you see here, don’t let go, because you can’t help the _me_ that’s in these memories—no one can anymore. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, I understand; I won’t let go,” Michael promises as she grasps Lisa’s hands; the girl looks trustingly up at her and Michael plunges into those dark pools.

 

 _“This is me,”_ Lisa whispers like sand sifting through her mind; each grain is a memory bombarding Michael, abrasively scrubbing her skin and flesh and bone away from her soul, and still she holds on, bearing witness to all the horror and pain the girl has endured, before she finally emerges in the white room again, where Philippa stands, afraid and ashamed, and awaiting judgement.

 

“Remember, this is all an illusion, even the _me_ that is out there on the beach waiting for you,” she says anxiously as Michael tries to catch her breath and centre her mind after the incredible flood of memories and emotions she has received from Lisa. “Do you understand now?”

 

 _“Yes,”_ Michael gasps, grasping at all the Vulcan mental exercises she’s learned to order her thoughts and keep from being overwhelmed. She reaches out to cup Lisa’s face. “But you must also understand, Elisabeth Rose, we _are_ our illusions—regardless of everything else, we become who we _wish_ to be. And you are a magnificent person, you should never doubt that, and if you ever do, Philippa and I will be here to remind you.”

 

“Thank you,” Lisa husks, tears brimming. “I’ll remember. But you need to go now,” she says looking over at the tableau before them. “Captain Philippa is falling into her illusion; go now. You must be on the threshold in order to accompany her into it.”

 

Michael pulls her into a brief hug and kisses her forehead, then turns and runs towards the barrier demarcating the boundary of Philippa’s illusion. She feels an initial resistance … then an icy coldness creeping over the surface of her skin, before she plunges into the ever-shifting kaleidoscope that is _Philippa Georgiou_.

 

#

 


	15. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I tried to add this chapter yesterday morning at around 6:00 AM, only to have the archive go down for scheduled maintenance just as I was posting and ... alas, all was lost! I didn't have a chance to try again before having to leave for work, and had a previous engagement last night, returning far too late to do anything but sleep. I hope this next chapter was worth the wait for those still reading. LOL!!! 
> 
> Enjoy!

The impassive Guardian looms over Philippa. "Captain Philippa Georgiou," his voice booms. "It is clear that you and your people _knew_ that the Tardigrade was sentient and, in my opinion, you have _not_ demonstrated that you deserve the mercy of this Guardian. Weighted against your willingness to _torture_ an innocent being, your _dangerous_ _ignorance_ of the forces you’re playing with, and your people's great _propensity for violence_ , it is my decision that _you, your crew and your ship_ be incarcerated on the mycelial plane for the _rest of your lives!_ "

 

 _"No!"_  Philippa cries in protest. "You can't! Only I should be punished—"

 

 _"The prisoner will be silent!"_ Tam Elbrun's telepathic voice batters against the lifetime of barriers she has built against her memories, and as the walls come crashing down she is inundated by the flood.

 

Philippa Georgiou screams in agony, and clutching her temples, she falls to her knees. Michael batters at the invisible barrier, and it shatters. She stumbles forward, crashing to her knees as she gathers Philippa into her embrace, curling around her as if to interpose her body between the Guardian and her love.

 

#

 

It is strange for Michael to watch Philippa’s interpretation of what has happened to her, and she realises that this illusion exists because her love is running from the one experience she still cannot _fathom_ after all these years— _her family’s death_ —so she creates something her mind can understand. And Michael understands that in this, they are similar; but whereas Michael buried her childhood and forgot until recently, Philippa not only buried her past—she _ran_ , and simply kept running as far as her starships could take her out into the cosmos.

 

There is a sudden shift in perspective, and the illusory construct of Michael appears on _Discovery’s_ bridge with a semi-conscious Philippa in her arms.

 

The crew is locked in a pitched battle with small Gomtuu-like creatures—the size of shuttles—above the glowing expanse of the mycelial plane. It is so realistic that, had Michael not known this was an illusion—a projection from Philippa’s wounded psyche—it would have easily fooled her.

 

"Shields up! All phasers online!" the illusion of Landry barks orders in rapid fire.  "Detmer, move us away, full impulse power."

 

The turbolift doors open and Saru hurries forth. "What's our status, commander?"

 

Landry turns to face him. "Just before the captain and Burnham appeared, so did these … _creatures_. At the moment we are almost completely surrounded by fifteen of them. They’re too close for photon torpedoes." 

 

 _“Gomtuu,”_ Michael hears the illusion of herself say hoarsely. “They are called Gomtuu and they’re probably under the control of the Guardian of the mycelial plane.”

 

Owosekun interrupts, urgency plain in her voice. "Commander, I'm detecting nine more subspace distortions forming all around us."

 

"Some of the Gomtuu are firing what appear to be bolts of highly charged plasma," Landry reports.

 

"Brace for impact!"  Saru shouts as _Discovery’s_ deck bucks beneath them.

 

"Shields down to 89% and holding!" Owosekun adds. "Minimal damage to deck three."

 

Saru takes the command chair and glances at the console. "Commander Landry, there are only four of these _Gomtuu_ off our starboard bow. Try to punch your way through there. Select your targets and fire at will." As Landry busies herself with her console, he turns to Detmer.  "Lieutenant, look for that opening and take us out of here."

 

“Aye sir!”

 

Phaser fire erupts from _Discovery’s_ phaser banks.  Each shot barely touches its target when the Gomtuu disappears, sucked into a subspace distortion.  As the ship attempts to surge through the opening it has created, a wall of the creatures appears.  Each fires salvo after salvo of plasma bolts, driving _Discovery_ back the way it came, while energy tendrils from the other Gomtuu extended towards the ship, attempting to engulf it.

 

"They are attempting to merge their energy beams with our shields," Ariam calls.

 

"Randomly rotate shield frequencies!" Saru barks. "We can't let them lock on."

 

"Rotating shield frequencies is ineffective, Commander!" Ariam shouts, visibly alarmed. "Three Gomtuu have locked on. Broad-band tractor field forming—another three have locked on."

 

"Sir, we may be able to break free by going directly to high warp," Owosekun suggests.

 

"Detmer, take us out of here—warp seven, then take us up to warp ten."

 

Keyla Detmer works valiantly at her station.  _Discovery_ bucks and strains against her bonds as more energy tendrils engulfed her.

 

"Commander, we're not breaking free!"  she shouts.

 

"Increase velocity to warp nine."

 

"Structural integrity at forty-eight percent and falling," Owosekun reports as the shield systems console at the back of the bridge explodes in a fountain of sparks, and Ensign Howard throws himself to the deck to avoid it.

 

"Saru to engineering—Mr. Stamets, we need more power."

 

"You've got all we have, commander,” the chief engineer replies, his voice hoarse and tense. “We're straining the warp engines beyond their design capacity as it is. We can't keep this up for much longer!"

 

There was a sudden blinding flash of light and the Guide appears before Detmer's station. 

 

"Commander Saru, you must stop this," she entreats. "Please, shut down your engines. It is your only chance for life. If you don’t, you will tear your ship apart and destroy yourselves needlessly!"

 

 _"Chance for life!"_ Michael’s doppelganger sneers venomously. "Life in a prison! Tell me one thing; why that charade of a trial? Did you and the Guardian enjoy putting Philippa through that _hell?_ Did you get off on being _voyeurs_ … viewing her most _intimate_ thoughts and memories!"

 

The Guide looks stunned, as if she has been physically struck. "No, Ms Burnham. I don’t know the reason the Guardian ruled the way he did, but he must have felt that justice would be served. However, I promise that if you stop fighting this, I will speak to him … find out what went wrong and to set it right, but you must stop this now. You must trust me."

 

" _Justice?_ _Trust you?_ Like Philippa trusted the Guardian to let our crew go?"

 

"And what of the _children_ your _Philippa_ is responsible for _killing_ , Ms Burnham!" she shouts back.  "The Tardigrade she so brutally _tortured!_ Have you given _any_ thought about justice for them?" 

 

The Guide stands defiantly facing them for a long moment before her face softens and she turns back to Saru. "Please, Commander Saru, I will speak to the Guardian on your behalf; I will do everything in my power to help you. I cannot if you are _dead_."

 

A variety of emotions war across Saru's face. "All stop, Lieutenant Detmer," he orders in a calm, soft voice; there is a long moment of silence in the sudden stillness.

 

"Thank you, commander."  She bows to him and vanishes.

 

"The tractor field around _Discovery_ has increased shield strength 300% and we are being towed away from the mycelial plane at warp six, but without any noticeable landmarks, it’s impossible to tell where we are and where we’re going," Owosekun reports. 

 

Nine Gomtuu fly ahead of _Discovery_ in a fan formation, each tethered to the ship by an energy tendril.

 

Ariam's voice is tight with anxiety.  “Commander, there is a massive subspace distortion forming ten thousand kilometers dead ahead."

 

As they entered the distortion, Michael feels a slight buffering, but the acceleration is nothing compared to when the ship jumps.

 

"We appear to be travelling between subspace layers," Ariam continues.

 

After a few minutes, the Gomtuu pass through an energy barrier and draw _Discovery_ into a great void.  The only thing present is what appears to be a large, transparent Gomtuu hanging in the vast nothingness.

 

Joann Owosekun breaks the silence.  "The central Gomtuu is breaking formation, commander, and approaching larger entity."

 

On the viewscreen, they can see a small Gomtuu transferring its energy tendril to the larger organism. When the transfer is complete, the other eight withdraw their tendrils from the ship and vanish with their characteristic subspace distortions.

 

"We are being drawn towards the larger Gomtuu," Owosekun reports quietly.

 

Ariam looks up from her console.  "I do not believe that this is a Gomtuu, lieutenant. It appears to be a subspace matrix of some sort." 

 

As _Discovery_ moves towards the matrix the point at which they are tethered begins to invaginate.  When the entire ship is engulfed, the rest of the matrix coalesces around it instantly and the ship was now tethered to the _inside_ of it.  As they watch, the last remaining Gomtuu fires a sustained blast of energy.

 

"Field density of the subspace matrix has increased 1500%," Stamets’ voice comes over the comm. "Commander, the polarity of the energy tendril is reversing. It is now _delivering_ energy to the ship, and shield strength is returning to normal.  The energy signature is compatible with _Discovery’s_ systems; I would recommend that we shut down the engines and generators to avoid an overload to the power grid."

 

"Do it, lieutenant."

 

The Guide appears on the bridge once more. "Commander Saru, the subspace matrix is now fully functional and will provide for all your ship’s needs." She moves towards Michael’s doppelganger. "Please believe that I will fight for you, Ms Burnham and that I will return—and please tell Captain Georgiou that I am sorry things turned out this way." 

 

With that, she vanishes.  Standing in the middle of _Discovery’s_ silent bridge, Michael watches as the last Gomtuu disappears as well.

 

A moment later, she hears Landry give the order to transport Philippa and Mirror-Michael—as she now thinks of her illusory double—to sickbay. As soon as they rematerialize in sickbay, Mirror-Michael gently lifts Philippa from the deck and places her on the nearest bio-bed. 

 

Dr. Culber is immediately at Philippa’s side, scanning her with a medical tricorder. "She's in neural shock.  Pollard, set up the cortical stabilizer,” he orders, before turning to Michael’s duplicate.  “Specialist Burnham, she won’t awaken for quite some time. I’d suggest that you report back to Commander Saru; I'll contact you once she has stabilized."

 

“Understood, doctor,” Mirror-Michael replies.

 

As the other doctor hurries to do Culber's bidding, Mirror-Michael places a kiss on Philippa’s forehead before heading for the sickbay exit. Michael automatically follows; as the sickbay doors close behind her, she hears Lisa’s urgent voice in her mind.

 

_“Now, Mimi, do it now!”_

 

Michael clamps her hand on her doppelganger’s shoulder and wills herself to merge with her mirror-self. It’s strange and disorienting; the sensation is similar to the one she’d experienced the first time she’d touched Philippa in the mindscape they’d been trapped on entry onto the mycelial plane. But this time, it’s not nearly so disorienting as it had been with the rush of Philippa’s thoughts and memories—or even Lisa’s memory transfer—in fact, she feels downright euphoric, and it takes her a few moments to realise why; touching her mirror-self is like touching the Betazoid Soulstone that Philippa had psychically impressed with her emotions and had gifted to her on the first night they’d made love. Like the Soulstone, Philippa has impressed this image of Michael with all her love, and it is so very _tempting_ to lose herself in it.

 

But then she hears it, that desolate voice almost lost in a howling abyss of pain, crying, _“Michael!”_

 

#

 

Philippa Georgiou claws her way to consciousness. Gradually, she becomes aware of the people around her.  Opening her eyes, she sees Saru's kind face looking down at her with concern, while Culber runs his tricorder over her.  Turning her head, she finds Michael and Landry standing on her left.  She tries to gather her sluggish thoughts. 

 

"How long?" she croaks, voice hoarse from disuse.

 

Saru looks at the doctor; Culber nods briskly.  "You've been unconscious for nine days, captain," he replies.

 

Philippa regards him incredulously.  _"Nine days?"_ she whispers.

 

"Captain," Culber says gently. "You went into neural shock, precipitated by the strain of the Guardian's telepathic interrogation. You experienced a temporary mental break, an instinctive reaction necessary to give your mind time to heal, and your subconscious time to reconstruct the psychological barriers the Guardian destroyed."

 

"What happened?"  she asks, and prepares herself for the worse.

 

Saru holds her gaze as he answers gravely, "We were unable to fight the Gomtuu that the Guardian sent against us and are presently imprisoned within a void between subspace layers.  So far, we have not been able to ascertain a way to escape from the subspace energy matrix surrounding us."

 

"Was anyone hurt?"

 

"No, captain," Saru replies.  "We have had to keep the ship on station-keeping status, as we are tethered to the matrix by an energy beam that has been delivering energy at a steady rate, and we have had to take all engines and power generators off-line in order not to overload the power grid." 

 

"Captain, the Guide has asked me to tell you that she will work as hard as she can to free us and to apologize on her behalf for the way things turned out," Michael says gently.

 

Landry speaks up. "I don’t think that this Guide has any idea about what happened or why, but she seems to feel responsible, ma’am.  I don’t think she expected the Guardian to rule as he did and condemn the entire crew."

 

"I know, commander," Philippa answers, as memories of the Guardian’s interrogation bubbles up on a tide of guilt and shame. "I know," she repeats softly.

 

Distantly, she hears Culber take charge and usher them away from the bed. "I think you should leave now.  She needs to rest."

 

Michael gently kisses Philippa’s lips, and squeezes her hand, before she reluctantly follows Saru and Landry out of sickbay.

 

Philippa brings that hand to her lips, feeling overwhelmingly comforted and loved by Michael’s simple affection, but she tamps it down moments later; she can’t afford to be distracted if she’s to get her people out of this predicament that she is responsible for.

 

Despair crashes over her with the force of a tsunami. _I am responsible_.

 

#

 


	16. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be so long in updating, but it's been hell lately to find time to do anything but work and sleep. Enjoy this next part.

As soon as Farzaneh entered Starfleet’s Bureau of Personnel for her daily briefing, she was accosted by Captain Helena Corrigan, who, although quite professional in her demeanour, nevertheless exuded an air of extreme _unhappiness_.

 

“Ma’am, may we speak in private before the briefing? You’ve received a message.”

 

One look told Farzaneh that Corrigan was unhappy with _her_. “Come into my office, captain,” she sighed, but she was intrigued, nonetheless, as to what has made the young blonde upset with her. “Now, what is it about this message that has upset you, Captain Corrigan?”

 

The normally unflappable woman looked almost embarrassed now—correction: she _was_ embarrassed, which sent Farzaneh’s eyebrows crawling to her hairline.

 

“Ma’am, when Admirals Picard and Cornwell asked me to be your aide regarding certain gold channel encrypted communications, I was glad to do it; but I was given to believe that they would be high-level communications from Starfleet and government officials—not-not _romantic_ _assignations_ from your-your lover!” she sputtered indignantly.

 

And with that, Farzaneh was entirely flabbergasted, and not to mention _lost_ —given that she hasn’t had a lover for well over two years, long before she and Augin had returned to Earth from her posting at R&D station Gamma-2, affectionately known as _Newton’s Apple_ , not only for its spherical shape, but also its over-abundance of gravitational science researchers.

 

Still, a woman of Corrigan’s rank should not be as affected as she seemed to be, regardless of the contents of that message. Belatedly, she remembered that while the woman’s father was captain of a merchant ship that plied the trade routes between the Denobula Sector and the outer frontier, her mother was from Brintada V, an old Earth colony where the inhabitants tended to be conservative and—not to mention— _highly_ religious.

 

“Captain,” she said gently, dropping her voice into soothing tones as one would when speaking to a skittish horse. “Exactly what was this message and who was it from?”

 

Corrigan blushed a deep red, but gamely recited the short message. “I am sorry you could not view the sunrise from my bed yesterday morning, but my _husband_ was being entirely unreasonable,” she said, disapproval dripping from her voice. Farzaneh groaned internally; not only was she supposedly having a love affair, but an _adulterous_ one at that. “Perhaps we can view tomorrow’s sunrise together from your bed, my head resting upon those decadent pillows I love so much.” Corrigan’s lips thinned out of existence. “The message was from a woman named—”

 

 _“Nara!”_ Farzaneh growled in frustration. “I’m going to _kill_ her!”

 

“Commodore?” Corrigan said, apparently curious now at Farzaneh’s reaction.

 

She gathered herself and got her emotions under control. “Captain, the message was _not_ from my lover; it was a message from my cousin, who has a very _high-profile_ job and a very _low_ sense of humour,” she said as she sat down at her console and looked up when the sun would rise in Tehran; it was just enough time to transport to her family home and get a few things ready.

 

“She was basically apologising for having to cancel our scheduled breakfast meeting in Paris, due to her husband’s ill health, and asking if rescheduling to sunrise at my ancestral home in Tehran was acceptable, which given the time zone difference from San Francisco, is in less than an hour,” Farzaneh explained as she sent a quick text reply on the same gold priority channel.

 

Corrigan blushed and ducked her head, truly embarrassed now. “Sorry ma’am.”

 

“That’s quite all right, captain,” she replied rising again. “I understand how that communique could be construed, but you might want to take those moral blinkers you have on, off. Starfleet and the Federation—even just Earth—have myriad cultures, each with their own morality and norms. If you haven’t taken one recently, perhaps sign up for one of the cultural sensitivity courses at the Academy—or even just audit one, as I do every few years. It would not do to become hidebound in our prejudices.”

 

“Yes ma’am!” the younger woman said smartly.

 

“Good. Now, is there anything pressing on the meeting agenda that needs my attention right away, or can they wait until tomorrow?”

 

“Nothing pressing, ma’am, except the personnel roster for the new _USS Europa_ ; she’s ahead of schedule for completion, and will leave dock by the end of the week—Captain David Stone is slated to command her, and she will fly Vice Admiral Barnett’s flag when his task force leaves within the next three weeks to reinforce Admiral Gorch in the Aldebaran Sector. I haven’t yet found him a first officer or chief medical officer, but I have managed to secure him a good chief engineer, Lieutenant Bersh glov Mog. At twenty-nine, he’s a bit young for the position, even for a Tellarite, but he’s solid, ma’am. As well, the chief science officer will be Lieutenant Janice Lester.”

 

“Send it to my secure holding buffer on _Discovery_ , Helena; I have to run now, but I’ll see what I can do when I return later tonight or in the morning,” she said with a rueful smile. “One does not keep the _president_ of the Federation waiting—even if she is your little _pain-in-the-ass_ cousin!”

 

Farzaneh enjoyed the pole-axed expression on the young woman’s face.

 

 _“Nara …”_ she whispered, eyes wide with shock. “Your cousin is _President Sanara Dadari?_ ”

 

Farzaneh couldn’t help but laugh. “My father’s younger sister’s daughter,” she replied as she started for the door again. “It’s not really a secret, and we’ve been friends since the cradle, although our careers have taken us on very different paths, so there haven’t been many opportunities to meet in recent years. But her husband is dying,” Farzaneh said soberly now, holding the young woman’s gaze.

 

Helena Corrigan did not disappoint her, drawing the conclusion Farzaneh _meant_ her to draw.

 

“And she is family,” she finished with quiet compassion, nodding courteously to Farzaneh. “I understand, commodore; I’ll let you go now.”

 

#

 

When Farzaneh materialised, she saw that the security system on her family compound was already engaged at gold level.

 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Sanara said without preamble, as she entered the living room with the tea tray, graceful as ever in her sapphire sari. “I couldn’t stay in Paris another moment and came as soon as I sent the communique. Colonel Everett and his squad are prowling around, making their security rounds.”

 

“That’s perfectly fine, Nara,” Farzaneh murmured gently, sitting down next to her and accepting a cup of tea. “You know you are welcome here at any time, dearest.”

 

Sanara sniffed and nodded, before sipping her own tea.

 

“How is Tre-mahdrehjeii?”

 

“Still dying,” she retorted bluntly. “I’m the _fucking_ weak little _Human_ —I’m the one who is _supposed_ to die before him, Zana.”

 

“I know, Nara,” Farzaneh said softly, allowing her the time and space to vent.

 

“Efrosians easily live for over one hundred and seventy-five years! And I had to go fall in love with one who won’t even make it to ninety!”

 

Farzaneh allowed the silence to settle between them for a few minutes, unwilling to hurry Sanara in any way. _“Grief must have its time,”_ their grandmother would always say; she would allow Nara her time to grieve and rail at the universe.

 

“I’m tired of crying, Farzaneh,” she whispered brokenly. “He’s almost completely blind now and spends the last of his strength carving his last mask … his _Deathmask_ … breathing in all that stone dust because it’s _fucking traditional!_ ” she swore. “And he expects me to dance for his funeral! _‘You danced_ joy  _into my life … you danced_ me  _to life … you danced our daughter into life. Death is a part of life, my Sreh-dih; you must dance my death as joyfully as you danced my life … our life together.’_ He’s _dying_ and he expects me to think of music and choreograph new dance steps!”

 

“And Tre-rohinijeii?”

 

She gave a watery smile. “You know my daughter … Rohini is just as calm, cool and collected about it as her father is. Sometimes he can mask his emotions to _Cold_ _Stone_ so effectively, you’d swear he was Vulcan—until he gets you into bed—”

 

“Then he’s a hedonistic lover who can give a Risan a run for his _horga'hn_ ,” Farzaneh chuckled, remembering her cousin’s old brag about her passionate husband, when regaling her and their friends with tales of his prowess in bed.

 

Sanara giggled into Farzaneh’s shoulder, and she pulled her closer. “He still can,” she bragged as proudly as ever. “Stamina’s a bit shot, but I can still get a _Risan_ out of him,” she punned and they both laughed uproariously.

 

“Sanara!” Farzaneh yelped in outrage. “You’re as bad as Katrina!”

 

“Only _‘as bad’_ ,” she scoffed indignantly. “I was going for something rather worse than our dear Admiral Katrina—something along the headlines of _‘Federation President Fucks Husband to Death!’_ ”

 

“But what a way to go, eh Nara?” Farzaneh said gently, ignoring the deliberate crudity of Sanara’s statement. It was how she coped—outrageousness had always been her stock in trade … one of the great characteristics of her performances, and something famed Efrosian Mask sculptor Tre-mahdrehjeii had fallen in love with. Something that had catapulted her into a surprising career in politics.

 

“Funny thing, that was his opinion as well,” she chuckled and then was silent again for a few moments. “I need something special for him, Zana,” she said quietly. “My daughter is creating beautiful new masks for our last dance for him—and at least I’ve convinced her not to pollute her more _Human_ lungs with stone dust and wear a respirator when she’s carving—but seeing that I must dance him from this world, I need something _spectacular_ , cousin.”

 

Farzaneh swallowed thickly. “I haven’t really composed anything in years, Nara. Even the little piece I did for my grandson’s christening is just a variation on something I’d composed for Thomas when he was a child.”

 

_“Please.”_

 

“All right,” Farzaneh capitulated, unable to deny her this. “How long?”

 

“A month, maybe two or three if I hide his carving tools,” she said with a low, desperate chuckle.

 

Farzaneh nodded. “I’ll do my best, but I may be called to war, if we’re to make the best of _Discovery_ and the new Crossfield ships.”

 

“I know. Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome, dearest.”

 

“Well, I’ve had Admiral Janor Shi’ri and the Judge Advocate General’s Office set Philippa’s Board of Inquiry as best I can,” she said sitting up and drying her face with the edge of a napkin. “We can’t do anything about Admiral Anderton and Vice Admiral Myrami’toch—they’re a given—but Cartwright is a weak link and was easy to cut out. He’s ambitious, but still only a commodore, and is up to his eyeballs in debt—though how one does that in _this_ day and age is beyond me! But we think it’s to the Orion Syndicate, which makes sense, since while individual Orion worlds may wish to align more closely with the Federation, the _Syndicate_ would definitely align with the Klingon Empire, given their close _‘trading ties’_. If the Klingons are leaning on the Syndicate to exert some influence in the higher echelons of Starfleet on their behalf, then having a commodore—with ambitions towards the Admiralty—in their back pocket would be a coup, especially given his friendship with Anderton, and her _‘subtle’_ lobbying for his promotion to Rear Admiral. But once we cut out everyone below Rear Admiral, it’s made for an interesting roster—did you know that T’Pol is an admiral?”

 

“Of course,” Farzaneh replied, wondering where she was going with the sudden change in topic. “But she retired over sixty years ago, before she became a Federation Ambassador.”

 

Sanara chuckled. “Funny thing about that—she’s not so much _retired_ , as she’s on a _really_ _fucking_ _long_ leave of absence.”

 

_“What?”_

 

“You should really pay closer attention to your own _Starfleet Personnel Programs_ , Zana,” she teased with that unholy grin of hers, as Farzaneh tried to wrap her mind around this unexpected news. “Given how long Vulcans and some of the other species can live, it was a program started shortly after the Federation’s and the _United Starfleet’s_ founding. In theory, it was to retain a cadre of experienced flag officers, while allowing younger officers—especially those of generally shorter-lived species—the opportunity to move up the ranks. _Admiral T’Pol_ , logical and thorough Vulcan that she is, has quietly kept up her qualifications for the last sixty years and according to Judge Advocate General Janor Shi’ri, is fit to serve. Given that Phillipa is unconscious, we’ve managed to keep this to a Board of Inquiry, for now, to establish the facts—rather than a Court Martial—and T’Pol has agreed to serve as Chair, which trumps Anderton quite nicely. She will be arriving in-system tomorrow with Burnham’s parents. The other two are Vice Admiral Richard Barnett and Rear Admiral Cheor Ton’ra. Barnett is slated to leave for the front in three weeks—”

 

“Yes, I know,” Farzaneh replied thoughtfully as she considered the ramifications of Sanara’s extraordinary manoeuvring; how her cousin had accomplished it—especially given her current distress—was beyond her. “We’re in the process of finalising _Europa’s_ personnel now.”

 

“We can count on him—and T’Pol to a certain degree—to nip any delaying tactics and other shenanigans in the bud, while Cheor Ton’ra, pedantic, law-obsessed Salaca’an that he is, will keep both sides on the straight and narrow. Since we can’t have Janor Shi’ri on the Board, Cheor Ton’ra is the next best thing.”

 

“Thank you,” Farzaneh said with sincere admiration. “I don’t know how you did it, but thank you! At least now I know that Pippa will get a fair shake as far as these things go and it won’t simply be a witch hunt, given how badly Anderton seems to be out to get her.”

 

“You’re welcome, Zana,” she murmured quietly. “It’s good to have old lovers in high places,” she chuckled, eliciting a bark of laughter from Farzaneh. “But about Anderton, it seems to me that someone really should take a look at how she’s intersected with Philippa in the past … perhaps suggest it to Coglin—he is still representing her, isn’t he?”

 

“Of course,” Farzaneh said distractedly as she tried to puzzle out what her cousin knew about Philippa and Anderton, if anything. “Who else but her father’s old friend Coggie? In fact, he’ll also be representing Tilly—contacted her even before the rumours started. But what do you mean about Philippa and Anderton? As far as I know, she’s never crossed paths with her.”

 

“As far as _you_ know,” Sanara emphasised. “It’s all a matter of degrees of separation, Zana—there may be over twenty billion _Human_ beings in the Federation, with five billion on Earth alone, but there’s only about ten million in Starfleet, counting all the various stations and support personnel. However, it really is a _damned_ _small_ _world_ when you consider people’s connections with each other; the old saying about six degrees of separation still holds true.

 

“In fact, I knew about Philippa … had an _intersection_ with her long before you brought her home for the first time,” she said smirking at Farzaneh’s open-mouthed shock. “Why do you think I _hated_ her on first sight—I’d been hating her for over _five years_ at that point, and then there she was stealing my best _cousin-sister-friend_ from me, getting you to do things that only _I’d_ been able to do … hearing all your secrets! Of course, I hated her … and she was perceptive enough to see it, but you can bet she never knew the _reason_ for it. She probably put it down to jealousy over you, and she was partly right, but remember—I’d been hating her long before she even _met_ you … before she even went to Starfleet Academy.”

 

_“What!”_

 

Sanara laughed at Farzaneh’s outrage and consternation. “I’ve got to get going, dearest; Tre-mahdrehjeii will be waking soon. But before I go, I’d like to try a little thought experiment with you.”

 

Farzaneh nodded, her mind still stuck on her cousin knowing about Philippa … _hating_ Philippa long before she’d even met her.

 

“I want you to figure out how I could have intersected with Philippa five or six years before I’d even met her. Now, first I want you to think back to where I was at that point in my life and what I was doing, then I want you to think about Philippa and what she was doing at that point in her life.”

 

Farzneh snorted. “At that point in her life, Philippa was still practically a _baby_ —a teenager in high school, with little on her mind but her martial arts studies with her Master Chen, and—”

 

“And …” Sanara prompted gently.

 

“And dancing ballet,” Farzaneh replied in realisation. “You intersected with her somehow through dance.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“But at that point, you were already a fairly well-known performer and you were pursuing your degree in dance studies at Alpha Centauri—at Madame Galena’s,” Farzaneh said in confusion. “Philippa didn’t even leave the Sol System until after her second year at the Academy.”

 

“Modern recording, communication and holographic systems are a marvel, aren’t they?” she deadpanned.

 

Farzaneh felt like an idiot. “You hated Philippa because of a _recording?_ ”

 

Sanara laughed. “I never said that it was in any way _rational_ , my dear Zana,” she said, standing as she prepared to leave; Farzaneh followed suit. “But that is a story for another time. My point is that your Captain Georgiou is too good at too many things not to have stepped on some toes—not to mention some egos—to get where she is today. And my gut feeling is that Anderton is pursuing this too … _doggedly_ … for it _not_ to be personal. If you, Kat and Louis-Georges don’t know of any intersection between them, then you must look at her life before she started at Starfleet Academy—and look at Anderton’s life as well … who she was before she became the illustrious Admiral Marissa Anderton. Maybe Philippa spit up on her when she was a baby, thus incurring her wrath!”

 

Giggling again, Farzaneh stepped into her embrace, hugging her before kissing her goodbye. She stepped over to the comm panel and paged Colonel Everett, who entered a moment later with his squad. He gave Farzaneh a courteous nod, as he and his people took up their protective formation around the President of the United Federation of Planets. Sanara rolled her eyes expressively, and to Farzaneh’s sense of whimsy, like the _Cheshire Cat_ , her grin was the last thing to disappear as the transporter whisked her away.

 

#

 


	17. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because I've finally had a full day to myself to write and edit to my heart's content, another chapter before I nod off. Enjoy!

"Captain's log, stardate 1218.6.  It has been 28 days since _Discovery_ was imprisoned within the subspace energy matrix and we are no closer to finding a way to escape from it.  All attempts to sever the energy tether have failed and our phasers have no effect on the walls of the matrix. We have not heard anything from the Guide and can only assume that she has been unsuccessful in obtaining our release. Crew morale is falling and to that end, Commander Saru, Commander Landry, Science Specialist Burnham and I have come up with a plan to remedy that situation and at the same time address our current predicament." 

 

Philippa breaks off and looks out viewport at the shimmering walls of their prison, lost deep in thought.  She knows that many of the crew have taken to keeping their viewports covered, as she does whenever alone in her quarters. Since she was released from sickbay, she has spent as little time as possible in her cabin; it had once been her refuge, now it is just an empty place that she goes each night to face her demons. 

 

Michael desperately tries to tempt her with dinners and time together, either in Philippa’s or her own quarters. When she does accept, it is never in Michael’s quarters, as the temptation to stay the night would be too great and Michael can never stay the night in Philippa’s without breaking her parole.

 

 _“You never touch me anymore … and you don’t allow me to touch you—to comfort you.”_ The pain in her love’s voice had nearly broken Philippa the night before.  _“Do you not love me anymore, Philippa?”_

 

 _“I do!”_ she’d cried, her heart beating wildly at the thought of losing Michael.

_I’m making a_ mess  _again_ , she’d realised, despair clawing at her soul. _I am making a mess of everything!_

_“But I don’t know how I can accept your love and comfort when everyone else is_ stuck here _… separated from_ their  _loved ones—possibly_ forever _—and it’s all_ my fault _, Michael!”_

 

 _“So, accepting my love and comfort is fine when times are good for you, but not when times are bad?”_ she’d asked bluntly; there is profound disappointment in her voice and in her gaze.

 

 _“That’s not what I’m saying at all,”_ Philippa had replied desperately. _“Please, please understand, Michael—I don’t know how to say it differently or better. I love you so much, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you, but I can’t hurt the crew—I can’t let them down! I’m responsible for them being imprisoned here and I have to get them out!”_

 

_“And you will hurt them by showing your love for me.”_

 

Philippa hadn’t known how to respond to that, and turned away, tears flowing unbidden down her face. Michael wrapped her arms around her from behind.

 

 _“All right, my love,”_ she’d said gently, her voice a soothing balm now. _“I will refrain from engaging you intimately until you tell me you’re ready to begin again, but I do insist on still being able to spend time with you each day—even if it’s just exercising in the gym or sparring on the holodeck … or even a simple meal, Philippa. Please, stop avoiding me. I just need to spend time with you, as we did before the war … before the binary stars … before_ everything _.”_

 

_“Yes.”_

 

Her simple acquiescence had taken an unbearable burden off her shoulders; she still feared losing Michael, but that fear wasn’t so overwhelming or as pervasive as it has been since she woke up in this place.

 

The quiet noise of the door opening draws her attention back to the present as her officers and Michael file into the briefing room and quietly take their seats. Philippa also knows that their plan is only a temporary measure, and that if it bears no fruit in a reasonable amount of time, her crew will begin to lose hope.

 

#

 

Michael catches Philippa’s attention and nods to her with a smile of encouragement.  Michael watches her closely as she begins to speak, and is glad to see the horrible, haunted look that had been in her eyes since their incarceration has abated somewhat.  To all outward appearances she seems normal, but Michael knows that it’s just part of the illusion.  She also knows that Philippa is plagued by nightmares and memories she cannot suppress. Michael has told her more than once that she is available any time she needs to talk, but so far, she hasn’t taken her up on it.  She does not want to press her love too quickly—afraid that it will only drive her deeper into the illusion—and only hopes that she will come to her soon. She forces herself to pay attention to what Philippa is saying.

 

"—and we are going to tackle this problem from as many angles as possible.  As we haven't heard anything from the Guide, we will proceed as if she wasn't a factor."

 

"Does that mean that you've given up on her, captain?" Tilly asks anxiously.

 

"No, Miss Tilly,” she replies gently. “But despite her best efforts, and good intentions, she will probably not be able to do anything about our situation. She may simply be powerless to help us. Now to the matter at hand."

 

Philippa stands and walks over to the holo-projector’s control console and brings up a hologram of her ship and her prison. 

 

"As I said, we are going to tackle this problem from as many angles as we possibly can.  Each department is going to be responsible for one aspect of this problem, but within those parameters we would like you to encourage your people to explore as many possibilities as you can.  Even if you think a theory is too wild, don't dismiss it without first discussing it among the group. 

 

“Similarly, don't dismiss one because it is offered by a junior officer or a non-com. This is a ship filled with the most brilliant minds, we can't afford to overlook any possibility.  I know that it seems like a daunting task, but what we hope to do is stimulate discussion and possibly even inspire a few ideas. As well, if a member of one team wants to attend meetings or experiments being conducted by another, allow them that freedom—that _fluidity_ —but they should report back to their original teams and brief them on what they’ve learned." 

 

Philippa smiles, one of the few she has offered in the subjective weeks they’ve been confined to her mind-prison, and it heartens Michael. 

 

"Lieutenant Stamets, assuming that we can find a way out of this matrix, your task with Science Specialist Burnham, science team beta and the primary engineering team, is to come up with some ideas on how to open a subspace distortion and modify the warp engines so that we can move through the flow fields between the subspace levels.  On the first point, I suggest that you may want to have some of your team research the subspace anomalies created to transform the Delphic Expanse by the trans-dimensional Sphere Builders that Archer’s _Enterprise_ encountered during the Xindi Incident.  The prevailing theory is that they used tachyons to open conduits through subspace and into our reality, supported by the advanced interspatial manifold technology of the spheres.  You may also wish to explore other phenomena such as wormholes, spatial rifts and whatever else catches your fancy.  As for the modifications to warp drive—or even the spore drive—that matter is entirely up to you.  As you proceed, report your results to Commander Saru."

 

Stamets smiles and answers promptly, "Yes captain."

 

The chief engineer looks like he was ready to jump up and leave the briefing room that instant; Michael has to remind herself that this isn’t really Stamets.

 

Philippa turns her gaze on the spore drive operations officer.  "Commander Ariam, I want you, Dr. Shrath and science team alpha to also work with Science Specialist Burnham to tackle the problem of navigating the flow fields. Study the sensor data on the trip we've already made and compare the results with Ms Burnham’s model of subspace flow fields.  You may also want to have Ensign Adams, from stellar cartography, conduct a thorough review of Dr. Torvach Sarlay's research on mapping subspace.  From what I understand, she is already extremely familiar with his work.  Before being assigned to _Discovery_ , she served as one of his junior research assistants for two years on R&D Station Theta-5, and according to Lieutenant Yorsa and Dr. Shrath, she is one of their best programmers. As you proceed you will report back directly to me." 

 

Ariam nods her acknowledgment with a murmured “Aye captain,” and Philippa continues. 

 

"Commander Saru, Lieutenant Owosekun and science team gamma will tackle the problem of escaping the subspace matrix. However, on that note Dr. Culber, you and your medical team will tackle the matrix from a different perspective. The matrix appears to be an organic construct, possibly created by the Gomtuu. Therefore, doctor, you will co-ordinate your efforts with and report your results to Commander Saru. Meanwhile, Commander Landry will work with her weapons teams, science team delta and a small engineering team on the weapons systems and the deflector systems—Archer used a deflector pulse to disable the interspatial manifold of a single sphere, which set up a chain reaction to destroy the Builders’ entire sphere network.” 

 

She smiles and finally turns to the youngest person at the table. "Cadet Tilly, I’ve asked you here for a very special reason,” she said as the young redhead literally quivered with anticipation and excitement. “You, science team epsilon and I will tackle the problem of the shields.  When the Gomtuu took us into the subspace layers, they increased our shield strength 300% to protect us from the effects of such a radical mode of subspace travel." 

 

She calls up a schematic of _Discovery's_ shields in the holographic display. "As you know, before the last jump, Science Specialist Burnham and Lieutenant Stamets had improvised the phasic shields to work in n-space, significantly increasing our shield strength 200%.  Now that's not too far off what we need to increase it to, but we have a lot of work ahead of us." 

 

“Yes captain!” Tilly replies with characteristic enthusiasm, and Michael has to remind herself again that this _isn’t_ Tilly.

 

She marvels at how detailed Philippa’s illusion is and _fears_ it. However, she should have expected it, given how incredibly _aware_ Philippa had always been of _Shenzhou’s_ every nuance … every problem … every antiquated piece of equipment; that this awareness would transfer to the inner workings _Discovery_ should not have surprised her. And Philippa, while not a scientist, has always been quick to understand the theories and breakthroughs her more scientific-minded officers—like Michael or Saru—bring to her table. As one of Starfleet’s leading captains, she has a rather preternatural ability of seeing ways to incorporate or adapt their ideas for practical use in defense or for betterment of her ship once the concepts are brought to her attention. All of this makes for an extremely formidable illusion that even Michael has trouble finding cracks to exploit.  She longs to just yank her love out of it, but knows that it could be extremely damaging to Philippa’s psyche.

 

 _“She has to_ want  _to leave, Mimi,”_ Lisa whispers again in her mind. _“She has to be the one to_ accept _that it isn’t real.”_

 

This subtle mental link to the young girl is something else Michael finds concerning, and she prays that she’s up to meeting the expectations it implies; for in the short time she’s known her, she understands that Lisa has trusted her far more than she has trusted any of the other people—except maybe Tam Elbrun—who have been trapped on the mycelial plane almost as long as she has been. Each time anyone approach her, she runs—even _‘Dr. Helen’_ , who seems to be a fount of wisdom, scares the child for some reason, and so, Lisa keeps her distance. From Lisa’s memories, the woman seems quite patient though, and after their first few interactions, she always waits for the girl to approach her.

 

Michael studies Philippa as she and Landry discuss a maintenance schedule for the phaser couplings. Another shiver races up her spine as she again considers how real this all seems.

 

#

 

Everyone smiles at Philippa, and for the first time she could see some of the tension leave their faces. "Alright everyone, we all know what to do," she says, “Dismissed!”

 

Everyone, except Michael, files out of the room, chattering excitedly among themselves. Philippa reaches over and turns off the hologram.  She meets Michael's steady gaze. 

 

"Well Specialist Burnham, phase one has begun.  Let's hope that this is not simply an exercise in futility."

 

"You have a good crew, captain," she replies gently.

 

Philippa smiles at her. "Thanks Michael."

 

"And how are you feeling today, Philippa?"

 

The smile extinguishes and she feels her mask of normalcy drop away for a moment, then slide smoothly back into place. 

 

"I'll be fine," she says firmly.

 

"I'm worried about you and so is Saru."

 

"Kelpiens!" 

 

Michael barks a short laugh, but the mirth doesn't reach her eyes.  "I know, I know.  It’s a state of being for Kelpiens to worry. But he is deeply concerned about our captain's wellbeing.”  She rises and places her hand gently on Philippa’s shoulder. "And so am I. I'm here to talk anytime you need someone. And please remember that I am your _strength_ , Philippa, as you are mine. You promised me that—please remember, you _promised_ me." 

 

She crosses the briefing room and just before she reaches the door, Philippa calls to her.

 

"Michael …"  Her love turns to face her across the room. "Please, I need more time." Michael nods her acknowledgement and leaves. 

 

Philippa stands staring at the door for a few minutes longer, then sinks into her chair.  She releases her iron control and instantly regrets her inability to confide in her lover.  She sighs, and her mask slides once more into place, as she rises and returns to the bridge.

 

#

 


	18. Interlude

Philippa looks up from her cup of tea she is sharing with Cadet Tilly and Lieutenant Detmer as Michael bursts into the mess hall, with Saru, Dr. Culber and Lieutenant Stamets following hard on her heels.  Michael is positively crackling with excitement, and Stamets looked like the proverbial cat that swallowed a _very_ _large and tasty_ canary. 

 

"Commander, doctor, lieutenant … Specialist Burnham, please have a seat." 

 

Saru, Culber and Stamets comply quickly, but Michael proceeds to pace in front of the table like a caged tiger.

 

"Captain," she launches into her report.  "I think we've solved the problem of how to modify the engines so that we can move through the subspace flow fields.  It’s so breathtakingly simple, that I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner! Actually, Dr. Culber and Lieutenant Stamets were discussing their last shore leave on Earth, which suggested the concept to me."

 

Philippa knows that her smile is loving and indulgent, but today is a _good_ day. "Alright Michael, now why don't you calm down and tell me exactly what this concept is." She sips her tea, looking at Saru and two men in askance; they all beam back at her. Everyone in the room watches Michael closely.

 

"Basically captain, we _surf_ out of here!" she announces.

 

Philippa nearly chokes and swallows her scalding tea quickly in an effort to keep from spitting it out.  She regards Michael incredulously. 

 

_"Surfing?"_

 

Of course, having grown up on an island, Philippa is a child of the sea, as much as she is a child of the land, so she knows what _surfing_ is—having learned so young, she does not remember a time when she could not indulge in that simple pleasure of flying over the waves with nothing between her and the fathomless deeps but a light, thin board made of composite ceramoplas. She hasn’t surfed since before she joined Starfleet, but she _remembers_.

 

"Exactly!  We make those energy flows and currents work for us.  Once we open a spatial distortion, we use the warp engines to create a planar Subok field, after that, we would only need to use the warp core to make fine adjustments to the field as we ride out the flow. In order to exit into our normal space again, we’ll have to map the flow-field coefficients to find the thinnest point in the intersection between n-space and subspace, then wield the Subok field like a _katana_ to breach the n-space barrier."

 

Philippa stands, regarding Michael with undeniable pride; once more, her love has come through for her. 

 

"Bravo, Specialist Burnham, Lieutenant Stamets; thank you to you and your entire team," she says as she shakes formally Michael's hand. She turns and offers her hand to her chief engineer, who shakes it enthusiastically. 

 

Everyone in the mess hall claps and Michael for the first time seems to realise where she is.  She looks adorably bewildered, and perhaps a little frightened, most likely embarrassed at all the attention she is being given. 

 

Philippa attempts to ease her embarrassment.  "Yours is not the only good news, Michael."  She smiles and indicates to the vacant seat beside her, which Michael slips into with an audible sigh that sounds almost like a whimper. 

 

"Cadet Tilly and I have just come from a shield simulation—a most successful simulation in which shield strength was increased, and sustained, at a level of _two hundred and forty-seven percent_ for two and a half hours.  Furthermore, Commander Ariam has reported that together with stellar cartography, her team has made significant strides towards being able to correlate co-ordinates in subspace with those in normal space, thanks in part to your ground-breaking work regarding the subspace flow fields, Michael.  By creating a gravitic sensor array, based on my old friend Commodore Paris’ theoretical work on massive halo compact object gravitic interactions with subspace, they think it may be possible to send out neutrino pulses to provide a simultaneous picture of normal space and subspace—sort of a crude form of echolocation, analogous to that used by bats or dolphins.  So, it looks like everyone on this ship has something to celebrate."

 

#

 

As an enthusiastic celebration spontaneously erupts around them, Philippa is in her element, mingling with the crew, listening to passionate discussions and eagerly-offered theories, and offering words of encouragement where needed.

 

Michael sits stunned. Then panic sets in; she does not know how long she has been so caught up in intellectual stimulation of solving this problem, that she’s fallen into the trap of Philippa’s illusion and lost sight of her true purpose for being there. She’s been working with Stamets on the engines for more than _three weeks_ subjectively—barely interacting with Philippa on a personal level in all that time!

 

_“Welcome back, Mimi.”_

 

_Lisa!_

 

The girl chuckles softly in her mind. _“No need to burst my eardrums!”_

 

Michael rises and flees the mess hall, stumbling to a stop in an alcove just aft, formed by a bulkhead and an observational viewport. She lays her head against the cool transparent aluminum of the viewport.

 

 _How long have I been lost in this illusion_ , she wonders despairingly, as she gazes out at the glowing walls of Philippa’s prison.

 

 _“Only a few minutes, by my estimation out here,”_ Lisa soothes now. _“I’ve been trying to reconnect with you probably no more than ten—but then it’s hard to tell, when there is no sense of time passing here. I can hardly believe that you’re from more than two hundred and fifty years in the future relative to my time. And here I thought it was hard to believe that Dr. Helen and her kids come from a future just fifteen or sixteen years ahead of mine. It doesn’t feel like I’ve been living here very long—and yet it also feels like an eternity. I think part of it has to do with not aging.”_

 

She is silent for a few minutes, as Michael’s tears flow unbidden down her face and she’s unable to stop the great, wracking sobs that claw at her throat to get out.

 

 _“It’s all right, Mimi; you just have to be more careful. You have to understand that Mama—”_ There is a sudden shocked silence and it jolts Michael out of her misery.

 

 _“Th-that_ Philippa  _isn’t doing it on purpose,”_ Lisa corrects in a small, anxious voice. _“But even with all her nightmares and guilt, that illusion is comforting for her. She’s comforted knowing that she’s helping to free her crew, but at the same time, she’s atoning for the harm she’s done—if that makes any sense.”_

 

Michael realises that Lisa is waiting for her to be angry with her for her slip-up. Her new nickname, _Mimi_ , makes sense now; Diana Davies will always be _Mom … Mommy_ , so neither she nor Philippa could ever be _Mom_ or _Mommy_. It would be as much a betrayal of her mother’s memory in the same way that calling Amanda and Sarek _‘Mom and Dad’_ would have been a betrayal for Michael.

 

 _And so, Mimi and Mama; she already thinks of Philippa as_ Mama.

 

“It makes perfect sense,” she whispers.

 

“What makes perfect sense, Michael?” Philippa asks quietly from behind her.

 

Michael draws a surreptitious breath, steeling herself before turning to face her lover; Philippa’s gentle expression is both curious and concerned.

 

“The surfing idea,” she replies. “I’m just going through a few things in my head.”

 

“You ran out so abruptly—you’ve been crying.” In the soft light from the matrix, she is ethereally beautiful and it makes Michael’s heart ache with a sweet pain. “Is everything all right?”

 

Michael dries her eyes on her sleeve. “Yes, things just got a bit overwhelming in there,” she husks as Philippa pulls her into her embrace and simply holds her, tracing comforting circles on her back. Michael accepts her comfort and longs to lose herself in it, but knows she _cannot_ do that again.

 

So, there in Philippa’s arms, she begins to plan. Lisa is right; Philippa isn’t doing any of this consciously. But somewhere— _unconsciously_ —she recognises that Michael is _integral_ to maintaining her illusion, and Michael, in her own _unconscious_ _need_ to help her and make her happy, is _enabling_ her. _Philippa_ does not have the scientific knowledge or technical skill to maintain the illusion of finding a way to escape from this prison, but _Michael_ does.

 

And so, as she accepts Philippa’s comfort, she accepts that _this_ is what she needs to undermine.

 

#

 


	19. Interlude

The moment Michael has been watching for arrives with terrifying suddenness.

 

The ship has become a hive of activity, but Michael withdraws from much of it except for the engine project, pleading over-extension. Therefore, as subjective _weeks_ drag on, _Philippa_ has begun seeking her out more now to help the teams to make progress on their respective projects. And Michael has taken advantage of that to gain some concessions and more personal time with her love.

 

She’s been enjoying an afternoon with Philippa on the holodeck, running a hand to hand combat program on its lowest level, more for leisurely exercise than anything else. Concentrating on breaking the chokehold of her own opponent, it takes Michael a few beats to realise that _Philippa_ is the source of those unholy screams she is hearing. 

 

Using her body as leverage, Michael gets under her Klingon and flips him over her shoulder to land heavily on the ground, then pivots to find her love struggling frantically against the grip of the Klingon she has been battling.  Forgetting that this is simply an illusion in her lover’s mind, and thinking that Philippa has been harmed in some way, Michael orders the computer to delete the characters.  As the Klingon disappears, Philippa stumbles away, still screaming and struggling unseeingly against nothing. 

 

It is then that Michael notices Philippa's look of absolute terror and blind panic.  She rushes to her, "Philippa! Philippa!" 

 

Her lover continues to flail blindly.  A fist connects with Michael's jaw before she catches Philippa’s wrists and holds them firmly, pulling her arms up and forcing the struggling woman to look her in the face. 

 

"Philippa, it's Michael!" she shouts, but doesn’t seem to be getting through. “Philippa! _Captain Georgiou!_ ” There is a flicker of recognition in her dark eyes now. "It’s Michael, love, it's me. This isn’t real, Philippa—the Klingon wasn’t real!" 

 

Philippa registers Michael with shock, choking her screams back until they become hoarse, heaving sobs, then collapses against her, all strength gone.  Michael releases her wrists, and gathering her love in her arms, sinks to the ground. Cradling Philippa against her chest, Michael strokes her hair as her own panic begins to set in. 

_Oh God!  What should I do now?_

 

_“You must calm her down, help her to go beyond her illusions … help her to accept it isn’t real,” Lisa’s voice whispers._

 

As Philippa's tormented cries continue, she simply holds her love … her captain … rocking her gently until she quiets. 

 

_“It isn’t real, my love; it isn’t real.”_

 

This is the litany she repeats over and over, willing her lover to accept it.

 

“He was going to _kill_ you, and I couldn’t get to you!” Philippa wails brokenly, clinging tightly to Michael and spiraling into those soul-tearing screams again.

 

Michael understands then that Philippa was triggered, not by her own struggles with her Klingon opponent, but by _Michael’s_ , and by her own inability to get to her ... to keep her _safe_. The symmetry between this scenario and their fight against T’Kuvma and his deputy on the Sarcophagus ship is obvious.

 

“I’m safe, love; I am unharmed. It wasn’t real, Philippa. All this isn’t _real_.”

 

She isn't sure how much time passes before Philippa's screams give way to desolate sobbing that finally subsides; she simply holds her, assuring her that she is unharmed and that the scenario wasn’t real, as she continues to stroke Philippa’s hair until she is quiet. 

 

After a few minutes of silence, Philippa is mortified of her breakdown and tries to push away, mumbling apologies for her weakness. Michael can feel the overwhelming _shame_ beneath her love’s roiling emotions. She holds Philippa firmly, but gently, and looks down into her eyes. 

 

"No Philippa, no apologies—you are _not_ weak. Don't push me away, because I won't leave you."

 

She begins to cry again, quietly.  She lays her head against the crook of Michael's elbow and accepts her comfort. 

 

"What you must think of me," she whispers hoarsely, still clinging to her in desperation.

 

"Think of you?"  Philippa nods against her arm.  "I think very highly of you.  Nothing diminishes that, my love.  I also think that you've been hurt very badly, and you are very vulnerable right now.  But you'll heal, Philippa; you will heal."

 

"I don't know, Michael; I don't know if I can forget it all again."

 

"Perhaps not, but you will learn to live with it and not let it live you, because I know that you are _stronger_ than it is."

 

Philippa lifts her head at last and takes in the bleak, rugged Klingon landscape as she dries her eyes on her sleeve.  Michael rises, smiling as she offers her hand, helping her love to stand.  "Why don't we get out of here now?"

 

“The Guardian … he will let us leave this place?” she asks, fearful voice barely a whisper. And Michael hates that her _indomitable Philippa_ … her _formidable Captain Georgiou_ has been brought so low.

 

“Yes, I believe so.”

 

Philippa nods. "Computer, end program and initiate Georgiou15-Pulau Langkawi2-Home."  The vista that opens before them is breathtaking. Philippa’s childhood home is nestled into the side of a hill, overlooking the sparkling ocean and an expanse of white sand beach that is warm and inviting in the bright sunlight. 

 

Michael gapes at her, her heart breaking. "Philippa, you do realise we’re still on the mycelial plane, don’t you? We’re not on _Discovery_ —this is not a holodeck. It is an illusion, but it’s _not_ the holodeck. It’s _all_ in your _mind!_   Most likely, the _real_ ship is already back at Earth."

 

Her love freezes, trembling as the terrible realisation dawns. “I want to go _home_ , Michael!” she cries in anguish, collapsing against Michael as everything shifts about them and they are now in the captain’s quarters on _Shenzhou_. “Please take me home—I’m so _tired_. I just want to go _home!_ ”

 

Michael gathers her into her arms again, and sits down on the old familiar couch with her love in her lap. “I know, _t'hyla_ , I know, but we can’t right now—we can’t,” she replies, rocking her ever so gently again. Philippa curls into her; usually a strong, solid presence, she has a bird-like fragility now that Michael is afraid to hold too tightly for fear of crushing her.

 

“I am _t'hyla_ , Michael?” her love asks meeting her gaze with hope shining through all that pain now.

 

“You are _t'hyla pau_ , Philippa,” Michael replies gazing down into those brimming amber pools, the colour of the waters at the ancient oasis, _Ran Tor’Rhak_ , in the deep dessert far from the city lights of Shi’Kahr. T’Pol had taken her and Amanda there for a meditation retreat on Michael’s sixteenth birthday. _“A place of women,”_ she’d called it; a place where one could just _be_ without having to define oneself for others or by others.  Perhaps one day she will take Philippa there.

 

“You are my _t'hyla pau_ … you are my light … you are my _wife_. Never doubt that my love.”

 

Philippa draws her head down and kisses her, a gentle tangle of lips and tongues, which rapidly becomes more desperate and heated. As Philippa’s hands find their way beneath Michael’s shirt, she breaks their kiss with a loud gasp.

 

“We can’t, my love,” she croaks and Philippa’s aroused gaze shifts to confusion, then disappointment. “I wish we could, but we can’t—not right now. Lisa is waiting for us—”

 

“Lisa?” Philippa asks as she sits up and regards Michael closely.

 

“The young girl from the beach,” Michael explains. “Her name is Elisabeth Rose Davies, and she’s been here for a very _long_ time. She helped me to get you away from the Guardian, and showed me how to get here to you—as well as how to help you break free from the illusion you’d become trapped in. Right now, she’s watching over us while we’re here in this mindscape.”

 

“I don’t understand—why? She ran away from us.”

 

Michael takes a deep breath, not really wanting to explain, but knowing there is no way around it unless she is dishonest with her love—something she’s vowed never to be if she can help it.

 

“She felt responsible for what the Guardian did to you—for the torture he put you through.”

 

“Responsible? She’s only a _child_ , Michael,” she demands in confusion. “What could she have possibly done?”

 

“Do you remember what the Guide said about the reason we were here?”

 

“Yes, she said that in exchange for our lives and that of the crew, our penance was to safely guide the people trapped here off the mycelial plane.”

 

“Then why would the Guardian punish you like that— _torture_ you like that? Torture _us_ like that—for I cannot conceive of a greater torture than having to watch you _suffer_ and to be powerless to stop it … to _help_ you.”

 

 _“Michael?”_ she whispers trembling; Michael takes her hand, draws her in close again. Philippa’s head nestles into the hollow beneath Michael’s chin and she clings to her.

 

“I think that we were an object lesson for Lisa,” Michael explains gently, “To get her to see us as _people_ and to do _exactly_ what she did—to intervene on your behalf and help me get you away from the Guardian’s punishment … punishment _she_ asked him to mete out.”

 

“She asked him to punish me?”

 

“Yes.” Michael shifts so that she can look into her love’s eyes again. “The Tardigrade was _hers_ , Philippa.” Tears flow silently down Philippa’s cheeks again—a quiet flood of regret.  

 

“She has been Lisa’s special friend since she came here over 260 years ago—”

 

 _“Two hundred and sixty years?”_ Philippa whispers in shock.

 

“Give or take a few years. Lisa is from the late twentieth century—from 1992—but she may not necessarily be from our timeline. And it’s difficult to judge relative time here, but although she was frightened of her at first, that Tardigrade became mother, father and playmate to her, Philippa, and she sees Lisa as a nestling … _her nestling_. Moreover, Lisa has bonded to her in such a way that she _felt_ what we were doing to the Tardigrade. Each time we forced her to interface with the drive and jump across the mycelial plane, _Lisa_ felt her pain and it made her terribly angry,” Michael says hoarsely as the devastated realisation registers in her love’s eyes and she crumbles entirely.

 

 _“Oh God, Michael! Oh God!”_ Philippa cries in a panic and Michael can feel the tsunami of shame and self-loathing that threatens to drown them both.

 

“ _Shh_ …” Michael soothes, rocking her gently. “ _Shh_ … she understands now why we did such terrible a thing to an innocent being … she knows now how _desperate_ we were, and that in war, even  _good_ people can do _terrible_ things in order to save innocents. I think that is what the Guardian was trying to teach her when he accessed those _specific_ memories. But there is more—”

 

_“More?”_

 

“When we tortured the Tardigrade, we triggered _her_.” Michael feels her love go rigid and still in her arms. “We triggered her memories of the _torture_ that brought her here to the mycelial plane. Her ability to teleport is one that manifested back on _Earth_. In order to teach me how to join you here, she willingly showed me _herself_ … her memories—I received a similar flood from her as I did from you. Her mother forced her to perform in a talent show, and she was so scared that she teleported away from the stage in front of an _audience_. She apparently ended up at a crashed alien ship, where there was a boy her age, who had done the same thing when under similar emotional strain, and learned from the entity on the ship—possibly an AI—that they were what it considered to be the next iteration of humanity. And there were apparently other children experiencing similar _breakouts_ of such extraordinary abilities in her world. However, when she instinctively teleported back to the stage in order to go home, some people were waiting for her … caught her in some sort of energy snare or cage and held her there— _oh God, Philippa_ —”

 

Michael’s breath hitches in her chest and Philippa turns into her, wordlessly pulling her close and rubbing her back to comfort her.

 

“It—it was so _painful_ , all she could do was _scream_ … Lisa was in such _agony_ , Philippa, she tried to commit _suicide_ ,” she cries softly now for the torture the girl has endured. “That is how she came here. In the end, all she could think to do was throw herself into the energy of the snare itself—she was in such _hideous pain_ that she thought  _death_ was the only answer.”

 

“And it only added to her anger at the torture I put the Tardigrade through and the deaths of nestlings,” Philippa whispers guiltily.

 

“The nestlings aren’t dead; Lisa saved them,” Michael explains and she feels a little of the oppressive despair lift from Philippa’s very being. “She brought them to the other people here to care for and she makes regular rounds of the other Tardigrade nests to beg spores from the other mothers or collect whatever the other babies spill from their nests, then divides them up and takes them to the caretakers to feed the babies. She is extremely smart and very loving, Philippa, but she also thinks of herself as a coward because she’s easily frightened and fears performing for people she doesn’t know or for large audiences. I think that the Guardian brought us here for _her_ , as much as he did for the other people trapped here.”

 

“And she _forgives_ me?” And Michael realises that her love is afraid, yet exceedingly _hopeful_.

 

“Yes, and she wants to get to know you—to know _us_ —” Michael breaks off uncertainly, apprehensive about voicing her next thought. “I know we’ve only just got together romantically, and we haven’t made any formal declarations or even had a chance to talk about the future … about _children_ , but I think Lisa is looking for _parents_ —she is looking to _us_ to be parents to her. And she’s quite anxious for you to like her.”

 

She feels Philippa’s heart stutter for a moment and then _soar_.

 

 _“Children …”_ she breathes, hope shining from her entire being. “You would have children with _me_ , Michael?”

 

It is the undercurrent of _utter disbelief_ in her voice that catches Michael by surprise.

 

“Of course, Philippa!” she blurts out involuntarily. “I mean … I’d assumed we would speak about it after we’d been together a while longer … perhaps after the war when we had time and were at liberty to speak of formalising our bond and perhaps adding to our family. And there is so much to consider regarding my criminal status—”

 

“There is _nothing_ to consider regarding your criminal status, my love,” Philippa says forcefully, cupping her face with a loving hand. “Since this ship is an illusion, and we are still on the mycelial plane, I have to believe that Saru and Landry have gotten _Discovery_ home—and that means Katrina and Louis-Georges have your _cloak detection system_. That also means they are working on your pardon and release—”

 

Michael starts in surprise again, almost afraid to hope.

 

“They’ve promised me, dearest,” she says gently, bringing Michael’s hand to her temple and nuzzling into it. “Look at my memory of my last conversation with them. They have given me their _word_ that you will receive a full pardon, and that Starfleet and the Federation will stop their _propaganda_ scapegoating you for the war. And I will _make_ them keep that promise!” she growls fiercely.

 

“I know,” Michael replies, her heart filled to bursting now with love and gratitude. “I don’t need to look at your memory; I know. Thank you.”

 

“There is no need to thank me, my love; it is no less than you deserve.”

 

Philippa pulls her in for another passionate kiss that Michael is reluctant to break. However, a soft melody draws her attention from her lover.

 

“Listen,” she croaks breathlessly, as Philippa regards her in confusion. “Lisa is singing.”

 

_I believe that children are our future_

_Teach them well and let them lead the way_

_Show them all the beauty they possess inside_

_Give them a sense of pride_

_To make it easier_

_Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be_

 

 _“The Greatest Love of All,”_ Philippa whispers hoarsely as Lisa’s clear, beautiful voice becomes louder.

 

“Philippa?” Michael says with apprehension at her lover’s pained expression.

 

_Everybody is searching for a hero_

_People need someone to look up to_

_I never found anyone to fulfill my needs_

_A lonely place to be_

_So I learned to depend on me_

 

“A song made famous in the last decades of the twentieth century by the singer Whitney Huston,” she replies. “It was apparently a remake of an even older version I’ve never been able to find. We lost _so much_ during World War Three and the Post-Atomic Horror.”

 

_I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadow_

_If I fail, if I succeed_

_At least I live as I believe_

_No matter what they take from me_

_They can't take away my dignity_

 

“How do you know all these _ancient_ songs and their singers?” Michael demands, and Philippa laughs softly as Lisa’s voice  _soars!_

 

_Because the greatest love of all_

_Is happening to me_

_I found the greatest love of all_

_Inside of me_

_The greatest love of all_

_Is easy to achieve_

_Learning to love yourself_

_It is the greatest love of all_

 

“It started with a visiting dance teacher—I was one of the best students in my school—”

 

“I know, you won many prestigious prizes for your dancing,” Michael says proudly and Philippa chuckles again.

 

“Yes, so my teachers trotted me out to dance for her—and she found me _entirely lacking_ —”

 

“ _What?_ Was she just _blind_ or was she simply _entirely enfeebled?_ ” Michael demands, outraged, as Philippa giggles merrily.

 

_I believe that children are our future_

_Teach them well and let them lead the way_

_Show them all the beauty they possess inside_

_Give them a sense of pride_

_To make it easier_

_Let the children's laughter remind us how we used to be_

 

“No dearest, she was _entirely correct_.” She pushes past Michael’s intended interruption, laying a gentle finger on her full lips. “I was proud and quite a smug little _prima donna_ —she told me that while I was _technically_ competent, I had no soul for it. Dance had to tell a story … express passion, and my dance told her nothing. I must admit that it _pissed_ me off royally.”

 

_I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadow_

_If I fail, if I succeed_

_At least I live as I believe_

_No matter what they take from me_

_They can't take away my dignity_

 

“Then she went off on a rant at my teachers and the state of dance instruction at all the prestigious academies on Earth—that they didn’t allow an old free-form called _interpretive dancing_ , which allowed students the freedom to create their own movements and tell their own stories _outside_ formal instruction. She accused them of churning out perfect, cookie-cutter, technically proficient  _robots_!”

 

_Because the greatest love of all_

_Is happening to me_

_I found the greatest love of all_

_Inside of me_

 

“She challenged us to research those old chanteuses of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and to study the way they used their voices to convey the emotions behind the song—how they used their bodies and facial expressions during live performances to enthrall their audiences. She asked the students to each choose a song from those singers’ repertoires and choreograph a dance to it, but we couldn’t use any of the accepted ballet forms. She gave us three months—asked us to bring those dances to her and she would re-evaluate our fitness for _The_ _Dance_.”

 

“And did she change her evaluation of your dancing?” Michael asks gently.

 

“No, my family died and I never danced for her again,” she replies hoarsely, taking Michael’s hand and leading her across the threshold of her illusion.

 

“I don’t think that Madame Galena would have found our Lisa lacking in any way,” Philippa murmurs to Michael as they sit up.

 

Philippa’s grip on Michael’s hand tightens, verging on painful, as she regards Lisa with tears in her eyes.  After a few moments, Michael realises that her lover is singing along softly under her breath.

 

_The greatest love of all_

_Is easy to achieve_

_Learning to love yourself_

_It is the greatest love of all_

 

Their new daughter is dancing with joy and natural grace, simple steps back and forth, gently rocking a small Tardigrade cradled in her arms, her powerful soprano soaring on the foundation of Philippa’s lower, more mature voice as they sing the last verse together.

 

_And if by chance that special place_

_That you've been dreaming of_

_Leads you to a lonely place_

_Find your strength in love!_

 

Lisa holds the final note to an exquisite length of time; Philippa’s voice is wholly untrained and her breath-control is non-existent, but her quiet, almost subsonic trailing of the word _‘love’_ somehow matches Lisa to the final second.

 

Philippa’s eyes brim with tears as she and Lisa regard each other for a long moment. “Hello Lisa,” she croaks softly.

 

“ _Umm_ … hi,” the girl replies shyly, as the little Tardigrade disappears from her arms and reappears on her shoulder, rippling growls emanating from its strange, sucker-like mouth, its claws bared, its body stiff … alert … _protective_.

 

“It’s okay, Boo,” she says softly, gentling the creature with a touch. “I-I’m _sorry!_ ” she blurts out, face crumbling.

 

Philippa immediately reaches for her, gathering her into a tight embrace. Lisa winds her arms around Philippa’s waist, and lays her head on her shoulder; the nestling disappears.

 

“I’m sorry too, Lisa,” she replies, rocking the girl gently. “I am so, _very_ _sorry_.”

 

They are both in tears, but beneath all the pain, Michael feels that they are beginning to heal. And she smiles as she brushes her own tears away.

 

#

 


	20. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, can't sleep because I'm coughing my head off, so I've decided to make good use of my insomnia. Sorry to take so long for this update, but it's been a busy new year - and January isn't even half-finished yet! LOL! Enjoy!

Captain Matthew Decker knows his ship. The _USS Constitution_ , while not the newest ship in the Fleet, is the prototype and namesake for one of the best proven class of heavy cruiser starships that Starfleet fields.

 

His ship speaks to him; not in words—because that’d be crazy, even in this era of sophisticated computers and great strides towards artificial intelligence—but with every quiet hum of her engines, every fluctuation of her gravity fields, and every gentle waft of air from her environmental cyclers, his ship speaks to him.

 

And Matt Decker has learned over the years how to listen to, and interpret, every subtle clue to his ship’s state as he walks her decks in the wee hours of the morning—from his first command of the Samurai Class light system defense cruiser _USS Katana_ , with a crew of just 45 souls, to the venerable old _USS Yorktown_ and finally to one of the gems of the Fleet, the _USS Constellation_. But although _Constellation_ had brought most of her crew through the brutal battle with the Klingons at Starbase 24—soon after the Battle at the Binary Stars—she couldn’t be salvaged.

 

He’d had command of her for less than two years, but Matt hadn’t thought he’d ever love another ship that way again, until another stalwart _“Connie”_ , the Grand Dame of the Fleet, warped her way into his heart.

 

There is a slight sluggishness about her now as she races light and time, pulling warp 12 for the last six days. Structural integrity fields are reinforced to compensate for the slight asymmetry in the warp field as the port nacelle is functioning on eight paired warp coils instead of the usual nine. The last pair had to be shut down when it developed a flutter, but _Constitution_ can continue without any appreciable degradation of her ability to sustain high warp factors above warp 12. However, if a second pair in that nacelle went, it would unbalance the warp field too much, and they’d have to shut down two pairs of coils in the starboard nacelle to compensate, which would reduce her top speed to warp 10, if he’s lucky. But his _Connie_ is a good ship, and he is confident she can hold up at warp 12 for the next fourteen days it will take to get to Xarantine Sector.

 

The extra 75 personnel the admiralty has crammed aboard—to be distributed throughout Admiral Ilsarith’s fleets—are also having a moderate effect on the ship’s environmental system, but it isn’t anything that _Constitution_ can’t handle; after all, she is rated for a crew of 250, with a maximum capacity of about 300 in a pinch. But after operating with an average of 180 crew members for the last decade, the presence of so many extra people definitely made an impact.

 

As he passes one of the storage bays containing electronic components for the new weapons, the plasma grenades and tricobalt devices, his nose wrinkles at the slightly acrid scent in the air, and he makes a mental note to speak to Lieutenant Hroltoz in maintenance about looking at the mid-ship filters for the air recycling system—perhaps adjusting the pore size.

 

The communication alert sounds disquietingly loud in the silence. “Bridge to Captain Decker,” his first officer, Commander Dishiratessan zh’Harath, calls.

 

Activating the comm panel on the wall in front of him, he replies, “Decker here; go ahead, Number One.”

 

“Sir, our new communication system just picked up Klingon chatter less than a light year ahead. Tracking has two Birds of Prey on a course towards the Tellun System, a Federation protectorate with two populated worlds; Tellun II or Elas, home of the Elasian species, and Tellun V or Troyius, home of the Troyian species. Both species have interplanetary travel and engage in warfare between their worlds, but both are pre-warp civilisations, although they are aware that there is a larger interstellar community.”

 

Matt’s heart misses a beat before speeding up. “I’ll be right there, commander; go to red alert and plot a course to intercept!”

 

“Aye sir, going to red alert.”

 

The claxon wails as he races down the corridor to the nearest turbolift to the bridge. Personnel hurry to assigned posts as Shiratess’ voice orders all hands to battle stations, but like the well-trained crew they are, they automatically flatten against the bulkheads, giving their captain—and other senior officers racing to their posts—unobstructed passage down the centre of the corridors.

 

He makes it to the bridge in less than three minutes, just ahead of Lieutenant Thlex, his Denobulan senior pilot, and tactical officer, Lieutenant Dafydd Krishna Rao.

 

“Number One, what do we have?”

 

The only thing to indicate that his consummately poised Andorian first officer is more than a little perturbed, is the slight twitching of her antennae. Decker doesn’t blame her; the safety of two unsuspecting worlds is in their hands—not to mention the psychological blow that a terror-raid this deep in Federation territory would have on member species and allies.

 

“Sir, from what Commander Shelby has deciphered, they were part of a larger task force commanded to strike at worlds deep in the heart of the Federation, but when the order went out recalling all ships to protect Qo’noS, every ship in the task force, but these two, obeyed and warped back to the Klingon homeworld—Shelby?”

 

Lieutenant Commander Alexia Shelby swivels away from her communications board to make her report. “Captain, originally, these two and a third ship were bound for the Deneva System, while others in the task force were bound for Coridan, Pollux and Valakis systems.”

 

Her beautiful face is pale beneath flaxen bangs, and her voice is hoarse, but steady. Matt feels like he’s received a hammer-blow to the gut, as the audacity of the enemy’s plan hits him and he realises magnitude of the _atrocity_ that Georgiou’s daring raids on Klingon space has saved both Starfleet and the Federation.

 

Three of those four systems are among the most populated in Federation space.

 

 _And yet the Brass still have their knives out to rip Philippa to shreds, even though she’s in a fucking coma_ , he thinks disgustedly as Shelby continues her report.

 

“They’re really angry, sir, at their generals and their sister ships for abandoning the plan, which they believe would have brought them great glory and been a great victory for the Empire. But one captain, Rorq of House Bah’Roth is vocally against hitting Tellun, precisely because both native species are pre-warp and would be unable to give them a glorious fight—he finds it distasteful and dishonourable, and is arguing for pushing deeper into Federation space and striking their original target, Deneva, or one of the others. However, he is not the senior captain; Captain M’Rulka of House D’Ghor argues that it’s a stupid waste of their ships and resources to go up against what are sure to be systems fortified by warp-capable ships or risk detection with further travel, when they could achieve their objective—of spreading terror throughout the Federation and demoralising Starfleet by decimating Elas and Troyius—and return to Qo’noS as heroes. She feels that this attack would also have the added effect of showing other species that Starfleet can’t protect them and deter them from joining us _deceitful and arrogant_ Humans in the _lie_ that is the Federation—as Lord T’Kuvma put it.”

 

“They don’t know much about Humans or any other species of the Federation, do they?” Thlex mutters, his quiet fury breaking the stunned silence.

 

“No, they don’t, Mr. Thlex,” Matt responds grimly, “and so, we are going to _teach_ them. Time to intercept, Number One?”

 

“At our current warp factor 12—and provided they continue at their current cruising velocity of warp 10—approximately 5 hours, captain, which would put our intercept less than five light-minutes outside the system’s Oort Cloud.”

 

Decker studies the plot that Shiratess brings up on the main holographic display.

 

“Far too close for comfort.”

 

“Aye sir, but if we increase our velocity to warp 14, we can intercept them at about 0.4 light years from the system in just under 2 hours.”

 

“And you think she’ll hold for that long?”

 

Shiratess’ grin is feral as the chief engineer’s voice comes over the comm system. “She’ll hold, captain,” Commander Caitlin Barry assures him. “I wouldn’t take her above that with the imbalance, but she’ll hold warp 14.”

 

“All right! Lieutenant Thlex, take her up to warp factor 14 on Commander Shiratess’ intercept course.”

 

“Aye captain; course 325-mark-137. Increasing velocity to warp factor 14. Time to intercept is 1.81 hours.”

 

“And if I need some fancy footwork from you, Cait?”

 

“Just how fancy?” his chief engineer asks suspiciously.

 

“A simulated flutter in the starboard nacelle causing us to lose speed and necessitating the ship’s drop out of warp and limping flight towards the Tellun System?”

 

There’s a moment of silence before her comeback. “What? A real flutter not enough for you—you want to _simulate_ one?”

 

He chuckles softly. “I’m thinking more along the lines of my old mentor’s favourite tactic— _The Broken Wing Birdie_.”

 

Most of the Humans laugh at the reference and Matt can hear the relief in it, but the non-Human crew members are definitely lost.

 

“If I remember correctly,” Lieutenant Rao chuckles, “Captain Georgiou used that one, to great effect with the _Shenzhou_ , against a Romulan ship’s incursion at Baradas and against Nausican raiders near Regulus.”

 

Surprisingly, it is Shelby who asks, “ _The Broken Wing Birdie_ , sir?” And Matt can’t help his double-take, which causes her to blush deeply. “Sorry sir, I grew up on Starbase 12; the only birds I saw—before going to the Academy—were a few budgies our school kept for instructional purposes and a couple of caged pets like canaries and parakeets.”

 

“I see,” he says, chagrinned at his own Earth-centric outlook. “Well commander, there are certain bird species that, when a predator is getting too close to a nest, the parental bird will land near the predator and, as a distraction display, start flopping around randomly as if it has an injured wing. Thinking it is easy prey, the predator will often go after the parent, which hops around leading it away from its nest. Then, when the predator goes to pounce, it simply flies away.”

 

“But with a starship, the prey suddenly becomes the predator, turns and makes the enemy eat a couple of photon torpedoes,” Rao crows with delight at Shelby’s suitably impressed expression. “Or in the case of the Nausican raiding fleet, leads them on a merry chase straight into the jaws of a micro-point quantum fissure, which Captain Georgiou then closes by bombarding it with neutrinos after their ships have been chewed to suitably small chunks!”

 

“Wow!” Shelby says, blue eyes wide and shining. “Do you think that’s what Captain Georgiou did to the Klingons, sir?”

 

He laughed. “I _know_ that’s _exactly_ what she did, commander. Whether it’s a 120-kilogram Kzinti male, facing off in a barfight against a small, frail-looking Human female—who wouldn’t even tip the scales at 60 kilos—or it’s the Romulans looking at little old _Shenzhou_ , a thirty-year-old Walker Class starship, and thinking they can take her out easily, Philippa thrives on deception … on people underestimating her. And she’s quite ruthless at making them regret their arrogance and prejudice.”

 

He turns his attention back to the interception plot. “With one pair of coils in the port nacelle cold, and another pair showing a flutter in the starboard nacelle—with our sudden drop from warp, as we appear to be scrambling to shut down the fluctuating coils—I think we can suck both ships in close enough to ram a few tricobalt devices down their throats.” He meets each of their gazes in turn. “After all, my friends, we don’t know that they’re there, and we _certainly can’t see them_ , now can we?”

 

#

 

After much grumbling about _“crazy captains”_ and _“death rides to hell”_ , his chief engineer reports that the designated coils in the starboard nacelle have been adjusted accordingly to simulate the subspace feedback that would cause the minute fluctuations of a _‘flutter’_.

 

 _Constitution_ screams from warp as she drops sublight, riding her momentum as she limps towards the Tellun System.

 

The bridge is bathed in the dim glow of the _“red alert”_ lighting; around their captain, the crew concentrate on the screens of their respective consoles, each keenly aware of their place in the intricate dance that was just about to begin.

 

“Spike of comm chatter between the Klingon ships, captain!” Shelby reports; she grins as she turns to face him. “Sir, they’ve taken the bait hook, line and sinker—they think that we’re experiencing engine problems. Captain M’Rulka just asked Captain Rorq if he would quit his objections, to their raid on Tellun, if she gave him this Starfleet ship to hunt. She just authorised disrupters free; she wants to save their torpedoes for the planetary strikes and any tight spots they might get into on their way back to Qo’noS.”

 

Decker chuckles softly. “Did she now? Well, we’re just a little birdie with a broken wing, now aren’t we?”

 

“Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! sir,” chirps Lieutenant Magda Pomeroy, his chief science officer.

 

He follows the two ships on the tactical plot as they race towards the _‘crippled’_ _Constitution_.

 

"Subspace sensors to maximum, Lieutenant Pomeroy," Decker orders as the Klingon ships decloak and _Constitution_ is rocked by a disrupter blast. "Thlex hold course for Tellun. Decker to Rao; how soon can we deploy those tricobalt devices?"

 

He glances again at his tactical plot, which shows the two Klingon Birds of Prey cloaking and veering off on opposite vectors, out of phaser range as Shiratess ineffectually fires phasers at their last— _visibly_ —known coordinates.

 

"Another minute, captain," his tactical officer replies.

 

"Make it a short one, lieutenant," he orders. "I've sent you the new cluster deployment plan—"

 

"I have it, captain," Rao acknowledges, then a moment later, chuckles. "Sneaky captain, very sneaky—"

 

"Will it work?" he asks as _Constitution_ is rocked again from another disrupter strike; Matt thanks every deity he can think of that the Klingons are saving their torpedoes.

 

"We'll find out soon enough, captain!" Rao returns.  "Dawkins, prepare to mask launch signatures with a high energy burst from the deflectors—"

 

"Understood lieutenant," the young ensign's voice is strained, but he sits poised to perform his part in this intricate ploy. "Standing by."

 

"Shields down to 88%," Shiratess reports.

 

“Continue to lay down phaser fire in the rapid random pattern around the ship; don’t let them get close enough to make those disrupter blasts count, Number One.”

 

“Aye captain,” she replies with a feral grin.

 

"Deploying first tricobalt device cluster now!"

 

"Deflector bursts activated!”

 

“Subspace sensors are at maximum," Pomeroy says, throwing the subspace sensor plot up on the main holographic display.

 

"Engineering to bridge, you have warp," Commander Barry reports, not a moment too soon.

 

Decker smiles at the growl in her expressive voice. "Make the best of it, Mr. Thlex; get us out of here—warp 7."

 

"Aye, captain," he replies, unflaggingly cheerful.  "No need to tell me twice—warp 7."

 

Decker is jolted for an instant before the inertial dampeners kick in and _Constitution_ races away as the first Klingon Bird of Prey blows up in a roiling mass from the detonation of two tricobalt devices against its naked hull.  The other ship pulls evasive manoeuvres away from its sister ship to avoid the remaining undetonated devices in the cluster—but it’s obvious to Decker that the enemy commander has not realised they can see him. The Klingon ship leaps after _Constitution_ on a convergent pursuit course, no doubt hell-bent on revenge for the destruction of its sister.

 

He smiles, a feral growl clawing at his throat; he is sure the enemy commander thinks that it’s just a lucky hit, as these weapons—unlike torpedoes—can’t pursue a ship, especially one at warp.

 

"We’ve reacquired subspace sensor lock on the second ship, captain," Pomeroy reports, tension evident in her quiet voice. "Approximately thirty seconds till they’re within disrupter range."

 

"Understood," Decker replies grimly. "Shields, Number One?"

 

"They're coming back up nicely, captain," Shiratess says smiling. "Now at 94% and climbing."

 

"Second tricobalt device cluster deployed," Rao calls over the comm. "Tracking looks good—proximity fuses have a lock!"

 

“Warp 9, Lieutenant Thlex!” Decker barks. “Any direction.”

 

 _Constitution_ responds before the Denobulan even replies with the obligatory, “Aye, captain.”

 

The Klingon ship suddenly becomes visible, swatting desperately—with point defense disrupters—at the cluster of weapons that have been suddenly dropped in their path and killing four of the nine. But it’s too little, too late as one tricobalt device is well within its shield perimeter and detonates against its vulnerable neck, which _snaps!_ like a dried twig.

 

“All stop, Lieutenant!” Decker orders as the enemy ship is thrown into a lateral spin; its head, containing the bridge module, tumbles off on a divergent vector. A split second later, he understands _what_ he’s seeing and _what_ it means.

 

“Deactivate Rao!” Decker shouts down the comm. “Send the code to all remaining devices and recall!”

 

“Aye captain; deactivation and recall codes sent!”

 

“Life signs, Number One,” he asks more calmly now.

 

Shiratess looks at him with an incredulous smile. “No life signs, captain,” she reports. “No life support or power systems—warp engines off-line. I’m reading nothing, captain.”

 

“It’s like everything just … _died_ , sir,” Shelby says. “No communications or evidence of any life craft deployment.”

 

“I th-think it’s the tricobalt d-devices _themselves_ , sir,” stutters Lieutenant Pomeroy in quiet awe, “interacting with the energy from the disrupters. Each time one was hit by a disrupter, it set off a burst of subspace Berathol radiation from the epicentre of the weapon’s destruction, which propagated outward in a sphere.”

 

“Why didn’t it affect _our_ engines?” Thlex wonders.

 

“We’re probably too far away,” comes Caitlin Barry’s voice from engineering. “It’s a limited area effect, as Berathol radiation attenuates quite rapidly in normal space.”

 

“Commander Barry is correct, captain,” Pomeroy explains, bringing up the sensor readings on the main holographic display. “One radiation burst would not have had such a bad effect on their core and power systems—they might only have seen a drop in the core’s output of maybe ten to fifteen percent. But the effect is cumulative, captain—”

 

“And exponential,” Barry chuckles darkly. “And given the yield of the tricobalt devices, it was enough to basically _suck_ all the ship’s energy into subspace as the radiation interacted with the core and power systems. Worse, each time they fired their disrupters, it would have ramped up the power drain.”

 

“So, with each shot, they were basically shooting themselves in the foot?” Dawkins croaks in wonder.

 

“Exactly, ensign,” Pomeroy replies.

 

“Well, as the old song goes, _‘Luck be a Lady tonight!’_ Ensign Dawkins, and we now have a fairly intact Klingon ship for our buddies back at R&D to study,” Matt observes with satisfaction, as he silently sends out a prayer to the universe for Philippa’s safe recovery. And as the implications hits his crew, there is more than one sharp gasp of comprehension.

 

Swiveling his chair, he grins at his chief of communications. “Commander Shelby, fire up our gold channel subspace relay and get me headquarters. I think _this_ is worth breaking radio silence for, don’t you?”

 

#

 


	21. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have been away so long, but life can get complicated. If anyone is still reading, enjoy this chapter. I've also updated the tags.

Philippa lies on her back; Lisa curls into her, head on her shoulder, one arm thrown trustingly across Philippa’s chest. Philippa holds her securely as they sleep and dream together.

 

Michael smiles as she watches over them, both inside and outside their dreamscape; it is strange, this dual perspective—it is almost omniscient. And although it is a chance for Philippa and Lisa to get to know each other, without the disorientation of an instantaneous memory transfer, it also allows Michael to put a little of both their memories into context even though she isn’t an active participant.

 

They are on Langkawi, swimming in the sparkling tides of Philippa’s childhood, after spending time with Lisa and her parents before her father’s death.

 

“I hope you understand what a great trust that child has placed in you and your partner,” an accented voice says from behind her.

 

Michael rises quickly and turns to face the intruder, moving to stand between the woman and her sleeping family. She is a tall, beautiful brunette, with clear creamy skin that has just a hint of a tan. On each shoulder is a small Tardigrade nestling; from its darker colouration, Michael recognises the one on the right as Lisa’s nestling, Boo. The woman is familiar in a way Michael can’t quite put her finger on at the moment.

 

“Yes, we understand.”

 

“Good.” The woman regards her for a long moment; Michael hasn’t had to fight the urge to fidget like _this_ since she was a young girl enduring the gaze of the venerable Vulcan matriarch, T’Pau. “I am Helen.”

 

“ _Doctor_ Helen,” Michael clarifies with sudden recognition of the woman from Lisa’s memories, and she laughs, blue eyes twinkling.

 

“Yes, that is what the child calls me; I was Dr. Helen Magnus, once upon a time.”

 

Michael sketches a polite bow. “Pleased to meet you, Dr. Magnus; I’m Michael Burnham, and my partner is Captain Philippa Georgiou.”

 

“Yes,” she says quietly again, looking down at the slumbering figures.

 

“Philippa and Lisa are currently indisposed—”

 

Helen Magnus again laughs softly, but merrily. “You truly are quite new here, aren’t you, Ms Burnham?” she says gently. “There is no need for you to be polite or offer any explanation for your vigil over your family—we all do so. For all that dreamscapes and mindscapes are _natural_ here, we must be vigilant, lest we lose our loved-ones to those illusions. I am just glad to know that she has finally found people she can trust to dream with her, and to finally know her name.”

 

Michael gapes at her in surprise. “You didn’t know Lisa’s name?”

 

“No, Ms Burnham,” she replies soberly, holding Michael’s gaze; there is deep sadness in her blue eyes. “I was never honoured with it. Almost everyone here knows this child … my children and I care deeply for her … but as far as I know, no one—except the Guardian—knew her name. She has helped us all, especially when we first arrived here and—for many—a long time beyond that. But when anyone attempts to reciprocate—”

 

“She runs away,” Michael finishes.

 

“Yes.”

 

The woman coaxes Boo from her shoulder with soft cooing and chirruping noises; the little Tardigrade purrs at her—a definite _interrogative_ noise that transfixes the scientist … the _xenoanthropologist_ in Michael. Helen responds with quiet hums and purrs that seem to satisfy it, and it crawls into her open palm.

 

“You can converse with the Tardigrades?” Michael said with no little amount of awe and fascination. “You understand them?”

 

“Yes, after a fashion—it’s more about mental images and emotions, than the sounds, but we Humans tend to use vocalisations as a primary mode of communication,” she replies holding out the little creature. Michael extends the cupped palms of both hands to receive Boo, but it hesitates, looking back at Helen. “Go on, darling; you’re safe … your person is safe,” she says soothingly—interspersed with soft purrs and hums and clicks—until it crawls into Michael’s hands.

 

The creature’s glowing sensory tendrils are extended and questing over Michael’s bare skin, beneath which her cardiovascular system glows blue-white with Tardigrade ichor. She feels an immediate kinship with Boo that is both overwhelming in its magnitude and insignificant in that moment it crawls up her left arm and perches on her shoulder, nuzzling into her neck and hair.

 

Helen chuckles again. “I have a long history with Tardigrades, Ms Burnham,” she explains, drawing a glowing bag from a pocket that seems too small and flat to have held it, and offers it to Michael. She accepts it with a murmured “thanks”; it is filled with spores.

 

“They were the first creatures my father showed me using my very first microscope that my godfather had gifted to me on the occasion of my tenth birthday,” she says, eyes soft and nostalgic as she looks off into the distance at something only she can see. “And they helped to spark my fascination with life in all its extraordinary and myriad forms on my world, and my need to protect those lifeforms that ran afoul of _Human_ carelessness, avarice and prejudices.”

 

Her voice is hard, with a definite undertone of wrath that is sulphurous, as if something _caustic_ was burning behind those intense blue eyes that command Michael’s attention.

 

“Later, they were the first creatures I showed to _my_ _children_ under a microscope, but they had a rather less … _profound_ effect,” she says fondly with another quiet chuckle that breaks the tension of the moment. “Even then, my Henry was already an astonishingly  _gifted_ little technocrat, while my Ashley was only happy when learning to stab, shoot or _blow up_ the rather inventive arsenal of weaponry he created for her.”

 

“Your son creates weaponry for your daughter?” Philippa’s soft, sleep-roughened voice startles Michael, and turning in her direction, she realises that—absorbed with this strangely compelling woman—she’s withdrawn her attention from her family’s dreamscape.

 

Philippa is sitting up, curled protectively around Lisa, who is tucked into her side. It is touching … and a little amusing to Michael, as Lisa is as tall—and probably the same mass—as her fierce _Mama Pippa_.

 

“Yes, from the moment he met my Ashley, when she was two and he was six, my Henry has always known how to make our girl _extremely_ happy.” Helen’s gaze is fixed on Philippa; she is still smiling, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. A shiver races up Michael’s spine; the Tardigrade purrs in her ear.

 

There is another—almost imperceptible—shift in her demeanour and she turns her attention to Lisa. “I must be going, my dear girl,” she says gently. “My children will be waking soon. I have been gifted with the honour of your name, Lisa; may I keep it?”

 

Like Michael, Philippa is surprised by the woman’s oddly formal request to their daughter; Lisa smiles shyly back at her.

 

“Yes,” she replies softly. “I’d like that.”

 

“Thank you.” Something indefinable ghosts over her face. “The tides are rising, my dear; our Guardian comes soon, so prepare them,” she says, her left hand rising to pet the Tardigrade on her shoulder. “Time to go home, Johnny-Boy.”

 

The little creature purrs its response and, with a flash of plasma discharge and mycelial energy, they’re gone.

 

“Who was that?” Philippa asks, looking from Lisa to Michael.

 

“Dr. Helen Magnus,” Michael replies, sitting on the sand next to Lisa. Her daughter immediately leans in to hug her, and Michael is enveloped in a burst of warmth and love; the little Tardigrade climbs into Lisa’s hair and she giggles, reaching up to pet her.

 

“She came to return Boo to Lisa,” Michael explains. “I guess that is where she went when she disappeared.”

 

Lisa nods and plucks Boo out of her hair, settling her in her lap with a soft chirp. “If they don’t come to me when they’re upset, they go to Dr. Helen,” she says, but doesn’t lift her gaze from the small creature playing with her fingers. “She’s really great and very kind, and she knows a lot about different people and creatures—even ones that she’d never seen before coming here, she knows how to learn about them very quickly and how to help them when they need it.”

 

“You admire her,” Michael observes gently; Lisa gives an affirmative nod, but doesn’t look up or reply. “You seem to like her a lot, yet you’ve never told her your name in all the time you’ve been here.” This time the silent nod is negative and her face grows pinched, with just a hint of guilt in the way she hunches her shoulders, seeming to fold in on herself.

 

“May we ask why, sweetheart?” Philippa asks softly. She lifts Lisa’s chin and holds the child’s gaze.

 

“Because I’m _nothing_ but a big, fat coward!” she cries out and the tears come. Philippa gathers her in, rocking her gently as she meets Michael’s gaze; Michael feels Philippa’s confusion and consternation, even as Lisa’s emotions storm through them.

 

“You’re not a coward, darling,” Philippa assures her. “It’s all right to be afraid; it’s nothing to feel ashamed or guilty about. We all feel afraid at some time or another.”

 

“But I’m afraid _all_ the time!” she wails.

 

“And yet, you do not allow that to paralyse you,” Michael replies as her cries quieten to sniffles. “That is _true_ bravery, Lisa; to act even when you are afraid. You helped me … you helped me to help Philippa, even though you feared us for what we did to the Mother Tardigrade, and Dr. Magnus said that you helped her and her children—that you help everyone when they first come here. Those are _not_ the acts of a coward, Lisa; those are the acts of a very brave person. Never doubt that.”

 

“Thank you,” she mumbles softly as Michael kisses her forehead. “I was the first, you see—” Michael feels Philippa’s shock as keenly as she feels her own. “After the last rise of the tides scoured it clean, I was the first one to come here. But I’m not the first person to arrive on the mycelial plane, as you call it, Mimi. There have been many, _many_ people who have been stranded here—and not only Humans. Sometimes Tam is able to find people, or even one person among them, who is strong enough to help the people trapped here to get out, but sometimes there isn’t anyone and he holds the tides back for as long as he can in the hopes that someone will come.

 

“But when he can no longer hold back the tsunami of time and space and thoughts and dreams, then everything is washed away in the _Nightmare Flood_ , except for those creatures that are beyond time or thoughts or boundaries—those that are able to swim or fly or ride out the storm and not drown. I came to this place just as the last tsunami was ending and everything was new again; _“renewed by the Flood”_ , like Tam says.”

 

Philippa coaxes Lisa to lie down again between her and Michael, who lies on her side, listening to her daughter’s story, but alert to their surroundings. Boo snuggles down on Philippa’s belly, purring, as Lisa gently strokes her head and continues her story.

 

“I was terrified when I woke up here and realised I hadn’t died. And then Mama Bear came lumbering out of the mycelial forest towards me—I took one look at that weird, alien face … those sharp, deadly claws … and I ran, _screaming!_ And she ran growling after me. I tried to teleport away, go back home … go back to the island, but _nothing_ worked—I could only teleport as far as I could see, and later, back to places on the mycelial plane that I’d already been to. Worse, she would teleport to my location within a few moments … and I’d run or teleport … and she’d run or teleport after me.”

 

She laughs hoarsely. “Eventually, there’s only so much running and screaming you can do.” She sniffs, tears welling up again. “And one minute you’re standing there exhausted and terrified, facing a big, glowing, eight-legged alien bear—no voice left, no strength left—and the next thing you know, you’re waking up in a nest full of alien baby bears … aaand you teleport away, frightened out of your gourd again, and Mama Bear comes for you again … and … _boomph!_ ”

 

She moves her hand away from Boo, nestled on Philippa’s stomach down to her knee—a split second later, the baby Tardigrade appears on Philippa’s knee. Lisa pets her head gently, then moves her hand up to rest on Philippa’s abdomen, just under her left breast, where her scar begins.

 

“And _boomph!_ ” Boo appears right on the mound of Philippa’s breast, like an eager puppy; Michael watches Philippa watching Lisa’s and the little creature’s antics with an expression of complete awe. Their daughter gives Boo another caress and moves her hand back to Philippa’s belly just above her navel.

 

“And _boomph!_ ” Boo appears again at her hand; she resumes petting her head and she settles again, purring affectionately.

 

“Rinse and repeat, over and over,” Lisa says softly, sadly, laying her head on Philippa’s shoulder again as she continues to pet Boo. “Until one day, you _don’t_ teleport away when you wake up in Mama Bear’s nest. You just lie there and watch her feed her baby bears these tiny, little glowy things that she regurgitates, and you realise that she’s been bringing you to her _nest_ … filled with her _babies_ … and that she’s not going to hurt you. You realise that she _never_ intended to hurt you and that she just wants to look after you. But even though you realise this, you’re still _afraid_ of her, her babies … and this entire place that you can’t leave. And after a while, you begin to accept that you may never be able to leave. And so, when she feeds you—you’re totally grossed out, because … like _ewww!_ Mama Bear _vomit!_ But they don’t taste much like anything and with each little spore you eat, you see little glimpses of the worlds and the universes Mama Bear got them from. And the more she feeds you, the more you see when she goes out into the universe again.

 

“Anyway, after a while, I accepted that I couldn’t leave here. I would explore and she would go with me when she could; I met the Guardian and Gomtuu, and the other creatures that call this place home. Most didn’t bother with me, and those that did … well, I got _really_ good at teleporting, _really_ fast. With Tam, it was good to have someone to talk to again, but then I realised he’s a ghost—that he’s been dead for like a bazillion years! And I’m scared all over again—I mean, I got _freaking_ aliens and now a ghost; all I needed was for the Vampires and Werewolves to show up with Frankenstein and the Swamp Thing, and I’d have the makings of a pretty bad, pretty _campy_ horror movie!”

 

Lisa gives a watery giggle and sniffles again; chuckling, Philippa pulls her in closer and presses a kiss her forehead.

 

“And then Dr. Helen and her kids came,” she continues softly. “And I realised that I _jinxed_ myself.”

 

“What do you mean, Lisa?” Michael asks in concern; there was silence for a long moment.

 

“They’re Vampires,” Lisa replies, her attention entirely focused on Boo again, as Michael meets Philippa’s equally disbelieving gaze. “I know, I know; that’s _impossible_ , but all I can say is that it’s _completely_ _possible_ in their world—they’re _Vampires_. Well, except for Henry—he’s a Werewolf—and Kate, who’s an ordinary Human, if ordinary Humans ran around hunting Vampires and all those things that goes bump in the night. And Dr. Helen is sort of a vampire hybrid; the way she explained it, she and four friends experimented on themselves with ancient vampire blood, way back in the 1880s, and they all got different abilities. Helen stopped aging and heals really well, but didn’t become a full Vampire; her boyfriend John gained the ability to teleport—and since he was Ashley’s father, she inherited that ability too, except it was dormant. Another friend got really, _really_ smart, while the third got the ability to turn himself invisible—and apparently he became a _really_ good thief,” she giggled. “And the last guy, Nicola, he became a Vampire—the first since ancient times.”

 

“Lisa—” Michael begins gently.

 

She laughs brightly. “Don’t worry, Mimi, Mama; I’m not losing it,” she says. “Honestly. You’ll see it soon enough. They really are Vampires—like I said, Ashley’s abilities were dormant, but there was a super-secret group called the Cabal, made up of very rich and powerful people. They wanted to rule the world Dr. Helen comes from, and they wanted to purge it of all the people and creatures she and her dad had spent more than a century protecting, or rule over them all. There were a lot of other things in their world than Vampires and Werewolves—Dr. Helen called them Abnormals and ran a bunch of Sanctuaries around the world to protect them from normal Humans. The Cabal also wanted to create an army of super-soldiers all under their control, so they kidnapped Ashley and Henry. Dr. Helen was able to get Henry back, but not her daughter.”

 

“What happened to Ashley?” Philippa asks softly; to Michael’s surprise, she can feel the utter sincerity in her love’s voice, and realises—to her shock—that Philippa believes everything Lisa is telling them.

 

“They experimented on her,” Lisa replies mournfully. “Turned her into a full Vampire, and then they tortured and brainwashed her to turn her into a killer. And when her genetics had stabilised, they used her as the template to turn a group of gene-scrubbed young people into Vampires as well. They were orphans—babies that some mad scientist had been experimenting on to produce _perfect_ Human beings—Dr. Helen called it eu-eu-genes?”

 

 _“Eugenics,”_ Michael supplies hoarsely, deeply affected, even as her logic tells her this story couldn’t possibly be _real_.

 

“Yeah, _that_ —and they _are_ real, Mimi,” Lisa says meeting Michael’s gaze; there is a hardness Michael is surprised to see there. “They are real, just like the Tomorrow People were _real_ in my world. Anyway, Dr. Helen had shut down the experiment about twenty-five years before and hid the babies under new identities with different families—not even she knew where they were. The Cabal sent Ashley to steal the database that had their identities and locations, and their Abnormal Hunters were sent to retrieve them. By the time Dr. Helen figured out what their game was and tried to protect the orphans, she’d lost them all and they were subjected to the same process Ashley was put through. Kate was a Hunter that had been wounded and captured when her team retrieved one of the orphans—and after she understood what the Cabal was doing to Ashley and the others she’d helped to capture, she decided to help Helen.”

 

“How did they get here?” Philippa husks.

 

“When Ashley and her team were ready, the Cabal sent them to destroy Dr. Helen’s Sanctuaries and kill all those people _Ashley_ had spent most of her life helping her mother to protect—all those _people_ , many who were like family to her. As facility after facility around the world was destroyed, and the people they protected were killed, the Cabal sent them to destroy the main Sanctuary and kill Dr. Helen—Ashley’s own _mom_ ,” she whispers with tear-filled outrage; Michael rubs her back in gentle circles. “They sent her to kill her own _mother_. Helen managed to break through the brainwashing and Ashley simply couldn’t … and when they ordered one of the others to do it, she _stopped_ them—she stopped _all_ of them. The Cabal forgot one of the most important rules about being a Vampire—”

 

“There are _rules_ for being a Vampire?” Michael asks incredulously.

 

Lisa chuckles sadly as she meets Michael’s gaze again. “Of course, there are, Mimi; just like there are rules for being a _Human_. Although, Dr. Helen says that some of the things Humans think of, as rules for Vampires, are just dis- _disinformation_ —originally put out there by the Vampires themselves, when they ruled her Earth through their Human proxies like ancient pharaohs and kings. Things like garlic, sunshine, crosses and holy water do nothing to them. But the rule that a Vampire Childe must obey their Sire was most important—at least in my world, and in theirs—and for Vampires, it’s all about the _blood_. The Cabal made them from _Ashley’s_ blood; she was their _Source_ … she was their _Sire_. And since they were all of her blood, they were telepathically bound to her, so she _commanded_ them telepathically to stop, because _Helen_ was Ashley’s _Mom_ … _Ashley’s Source_.

 

“But she knew that she couldn’t hang onto her sanity long enough to hold them off indefinitely, and that if she died, they would be free to kill and destroy whoever and whatever the Cabal wanted them to without any restraint. According to Ashley, when they teleported back on Earth, they moved automatically through the mycelial plane, and although the others didn’t seem to register it, she instinctively knew that if they stopped mid-teleport—without flowing through to the other side of the teleport—they would be trapped here. And as soon as Ashley realised it, her Mom somehow knew as well and couldn’t let her go—not alone. And Henry wouldn’t let his baby sister—and the mother who had rescued and raised him after his _entire_ Clan was slaughtered by Humans—go. And Kate, well … she was looking for redemption and forgiveness for all the terrible things she’d done for the Cabal and how she’d simply thought of it as a job … destroying so many lives, in such horrible ways, simply to get a paycheck. So, Ashley brought them here, and Dr. Helen became Mom to them all and has been helping them to regain their identities and their _humanity_ ever since—”

 

A low, almost subsonic, growl interrupts her. Out of the mycelial forest walks the mother Tardigrade. Mama Bear. _Ripper_.

 

Michael begins to rise automatically, but Lisa stops her with a touch. “It’s all right, Mimi,” she says gently as the Tardigrade growls lowly. “She’s not here to hurt you or Mama; she has a message—the same one as Dr. Helen. Tam is rising to consciousness out of Gomtuu again. You both must rest now, so that you can be ready when he summons you.”

 

“Summons us?” Philippa’s voice is steady, but Michael can feel her fear of the Guardian roiling within her.

 

She nods, rising and moving towards the mother Tardigrade; Boo disappears from Philippa’s lap and reappears on Lisa’s shoulder. She pets each in turn, hands glowing brightly, as energy seems to flow from the creatures into her and then back again.

 

“He needs you to do the job you were brought here to do,” she says quietly. “I was so angry when he chose you, I didn’t listen much to what he was saying. All I really remember is that he needs one of you to be the Vessel that takes us back to the real world—to your Sarek and Amanda, Mimi … to your Zana and Kat, Mama—and the other will be the Anchor, with the strength to hold the Vessel where she needs to be.”

 

At their confused expressions, she chuckles sadly. “He’ll explain it to you, I promise. But for now, Mama Bear says that you need to rest. We’ll watch over you, but I won’t look into your dreamscape unless she senses that you’re in trouble. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” Philippa husks, reaching for Michael’s hand and holding it tightly. “Will you be all right out here alone?”

 

This time Lisa laughs outright. “More than all right, Mama Pippa,” she says between giggles as Mama Bear lays down at her feet. “And I’m not alone; few things here would threaten a mother Tardigrade. We’ve been together for a long time … Boo is from her _fifty-fourth_ litter since she first came for me—and seeing that this version of Mama Bear just came from having her _nine hundred and twenty-third_ litter, I’ve probably got more Tardigrade siblings out there in the multiverse than there are stars in Earth’s sky. If anything comes that she can’t handle, she can call many of them back here if she needs help to defend us.”

 

Philippa is entirely flabbergasted by this response, as is Michael, if she’s honest with herself. At the moment, it is difficult to reconcile this glowing, self-assured Lisa with the one who’d been crying about her _cowardice_ just a short time ago.

 

“Go to sleep now, Mama,” she says softly, lovingly. “And you can dance with Mimi all those _dances_ you promised her,” she teases as Philippa blushes very becomingly.

 

Michael raises an eyebrow in askance. “And what would you know about our _dances_?”

 

 _“Wouldn’t you like to know?”_ Their daughter dissolves into uproarious giggles as she snuggles into the reclining Mama Bear.

 

Philippa cups Michael’s chin and turns her head gently to look into her eyes; there is unmistakeable desire there, and no small amount of mischievousness in her grin before Philippa kisses her and they fall into each other

 

#

 


	22. Interlude

It doesn’t surprise Philippa that she is pulling Michael in to dip her; the ripple and play of muscle beneath warm skin arouses her, almost as much as the passion those dark chocolate eyes. The erotic sounds of a tango entices her as she pulls Michael flush against her body; her love automatically brings her right leg up to wrap about her hip.

 

As they dance, an ebb and flow of rhythm as natural as the tide beneath the moon, Philippa realises she can feel the pull of Michael’s attraction as it rises in her veins and _sings_.  Her breath is shallow and quick, her nostrils flare and the pulse at the base of her neck beats quickly as she moves by instinct alone. Michael smiles—and in it, Philippa senses her anticipation mixed with a little anxiety.

 

Michael meets her gaze almost shyly and Philippa can read the question in her dark eyes; _are you ready?_   She takes Michael’s hand and brings it to her lips; they both stand still, looking at each other, as if unsure of what to do. Then, as if making up her mind, Michael pulls her close and kisses her, her body moulding to Philippa’s. 

 

Michael’s hands insinuate between them to untie the simple belt holding Philippa’s dress closed, then her fingers are on her belly, caressing her, moving to her hips and then around to her buttocks.  As Michael kneads her butt with an exciting pressure, she feels her naked breasts brush the material of Michael’s dress, sending exquisite sensations racing through her entire being; it feels like silk.  Suddenly, Philippa wants to taste and to feel every part of her, and she throws her arms around her love’s neck, nibbling kisses along Michael’s jaw and caressing her breasts through the dress.

 

Michael moans and pulls away from her, and taking her hand again, leads her over to the bed that is suddenly _there_ ; Philippa realises that it is the bed from her quarters on _Discovery_ and it is made exactly as it had been when she and Michael had first made love. 

 

Michael pushes the dress from her shoulders, and a moment later Philippa follows her lead and pulls Michael’s dress off over her head.  She stood smiling, wearing only a thin panty, which Michael wastes no time pulling down over her hips, without breaking eye contact with her.  Philippa stepped into Michael’s arms again as she stands; the soft mounds of her breasts are exquisite against Philippa’s chest as she moulds herself to her love again. 

 

Michael’s light touch along the length of Philippa’s spine causes her to moan with pleasure, and she was awash in a deluge of erotic sensations.  Again, she stops at the pinnacle of an exquisite sensation and moves away from Philippa. Michael quickly removes her underwear and climbs into the bed, lying on her side, holding her hand out to Philippa.  Taking it, she lies down next to her love and kisses her again, throwing her leg over Michael’s hip and rolling her onto her back.

 

Michael looks up, her face filled with love and wonder as Philippa straddles her waist and she caresses her face with the back of her hand.

 

She brings her face close to her love’s, speaking softly. "I want to know joy with you, Michael—to touch and explore every part … every facet of you—experience every … _thing_ that is _you_. Tell me if I hurt you," she whispers, kissing her gently on the lips.  "And I will tell you."

 

#

 

"I understand," Michael replies hoarsely as Philippa slides down her body and captures one of her nipples in her mouth, sucking for a few moments before doing the same to the other, sucking and licking the pliant flesh. 

 

Michael catches her breath and shivers as her lover kisses her way down her body, making soft, breathy noises and low moans, her hands moving ceaselessly over Philippa’s silky hair. She feels the gathering fullness and tightness in her loins, from Philippa’s relentless tongue, engorging her clitoris until it was almost painfully erect and twitching with each surge of the tides in her veins. 

 

She gasps as Philippa sucks the little bundle of nerves into her mouth and laves it all over its sensitive surface, until Michael is caught in a maelstrom of pure pleasure … making her blood sing louder … causing her heart beat faster and faster. 

 

"I can’t hold back!" she cries hoarsely as she flies over the edge, eyes wide as she stares down into Philippa’s dark orbs sparkling with tears that shone like stars in the depths of space. Fingers replace mouth as Philippa moves up her body again to catch her lips in a searing kiss, producing the most intense sensation of being safe in a perfect cocoon of love with her. 

 

"Shhh …" she hushes gently. "I'm here with you, my Michael; I'm here . . . I'm here . . ." she whispers over and over, as her fingers begins to move again within Michael, in a rhythm as old as time. 

 

Michael moans loudly, clings to Philippa as her love wraps her one leg over her hip in an effort to get still closer. She realises that Philippa is as caught as she is, in the maelstrom of their passions, and is moaning her name "Michael!" in a chant that matches the rhythm of the blood pounding in her ears. 

 

The tears in Philippa’s eyes are tears of joy … tears of _love_ for her. And as Michael gathers her more closely, her chant blurs into a wail and then into a scream that draws them into each other, and Michael doesn’t know where she begins and where Philippa ends. 

 

Michael clings to Philippa as the universe rages out of control around them … and all that is _real_ is the love between them.

 

#

 

Hours—or perhaps only moments—later, Philippa wakes to Michael gently kneading her shoulders; their world is bathed with light and warmth and colour and love … like the sun rising above the ocean. She is sitting on the bed between her love’s legs, leaning back into her, languorous and content. Catching Michael’s hand, she presses it lovingly to her lips. They do not speak as she turns into Michael and claim her lips again—the time for discussion is long past. 

 

They are unhurried, kissing and touching—caressing each other in familiar patterns.  Michael lays her down gently, lovingly exploring her familiar contours as she trails kisses down her torso. 

 

Philippa smiles; it had taken her far too long to learn that bringing a partner to orgasm is only one act in a whole symphony of lovemaking, and she is glad of that hard-won knowledge now. Michael manoeuvres herself, in one fluid motion, so that she is straddling Philippa. Her eyes sparkle as they hold each other’s gaze … as if they are the only two people left in the universe—a harmony of love and thought and silence.

 

Philippa reaches up to cup her beloved’s face, nibbling Michael’s lips with gentle pecks.

 

_“Cinta sayang, dance this sunrise with me?”_

 

Michael stills, eyes wide with surprise and a little confusion at the request, before the relevant memory from Philippa’s past rises to the fore if her mind and understanding takes root.

 

_“Always, my love.”_

 

They rise from the bed and, hand in hand, walk to the shore; the glowing water laps at their ankles as they lift their arms in welcome to the painted sky.

 

Michael falls easily into synchrony with her, hips swiveling, feet gliding across the sand as the music flows from Philippa, into Michael, and back again. It flows between them in an endless circuit of rhythm and love, while exquisite sensations built within their flesh, and as the tempo of their movements increased, a tear escapes Philippa … and then another … and another … in supplication to the dawn.

 

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Google Translate, "cinta sayang" means "dearest love" in Malay.


	23. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More insomnia these days, so using it to be productive by editing and updating. LOL! Enjoy the new chapter!

When she returned to _Discovery_ , Farzaneh made a quick stop at the bridge for Saru’s report—all quiet on that front—and then sent a communique requesting a meeting with Katrina and Louis-George at their earliest convenience, before heading down to engineering.

 

“Commodore Paris!”

 

Farzaneh stopped in the corridor just outside the turbolift near main engineering and turned to greet Ellen Landry.

 

“Hello commander,” she said smiling as the flustered chief of security caught up to her. “How are you today?”

 

“Good ma’am,” the younger woman replied, visibly calming. “Sorry, I was in the kitchen when Saru commed me that you’d returned to the ship.”

 

“No worries, Commander Landry,” Farzaneh said lightly, and then frowned. “In fact, if I remember correctly, shouldn’t you be at appointment with Dr. Danner?”

 

She laughed and looked away. “I should, but we had to reschedule to tomorrow evening; another crewmember needed an emergency consultation.”

 

“And I know how much you love Dr. Danner’s couch,” Farzaneh teased. “All right, but don’t make it a habit; your mental health is as important as your crewmates’, Ellen.”

 

“I know,” she murmured, and Farzaneh nodded, allowing the subject to drop as they resumed their walk towards engineering.

 

“So, what’s on your mind?”

 

“I had a brainstorm this afternoon, while I was cooking,” she replied with definite excitement. “It’s not really anything urgent, but I was thinking about the security around the new drive, and a way to refer to it without broadcasting exactly what it is or what it does. Besides, _“subspace submersion drive”_ is rather a mouthful to say each time, so I thought … what about a _“trans-warp drive”?_ It conveys something beyond conventional warp drive, without saying exactly what it is. The Klingons—most of our enemies will eventually figure it out—”

 

“But there’s no need to help them out and it should keep them guessing for quite some time,” Farzaneh finished her thought with a low chuckle. “I _like_ it and will suggest it to Shiren as soon as possible, so it can be incorporated into the Bureau of Shipbuilding’s operational security around the new drive. Thank you, commander.”

 

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” she replied with a brilliant smile as they entered the engineering bay containing the drive cube.

 

Stamets and Tilly were present with Dr. Culber, who was monitoring Philippa’s and Michael’s vital signs, while his partner injected a fresh batch of mycelial spores into the drive cube. No one knew exactly what was going on with the women, but their brain activity seemed to increase measurably with the daily withdrawal of the spores and infusion of a fresh batch.

 

“How are they this evening, my friends?”

 

Culber looked up from his display and grinned widely at her. “Actually, quite well, ma’am,” he replied brightly. “The music is changing now; it’s become livelier, doesn’t have the vocalisations and the scans certainly seem to indicate that they’re dancing. If they are, then Captain Georgiou seems to be leading this particular dance—as if she’s demonstrating and a second later, Ms Burnham repeats whatever the movement was. And they’re moving more and more into sync with each other as Michael _learns the_ _routine_ , I guess,” he laughed.

 

Farzaneh smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “May I hear it?” she asked and he nodded, adjusting the volume; in the last few days, she often found it incredibly soothing to listen to them while she worked.

 

As the music poured from the room’s speakers, Farzaneh couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Commodore?” Landry said with concern at her sudden incongruous hilarity.

 

“Oh, my darling little _Witch_ ,” she murmured instead, approaching the drive cube and smiling at the two motionless women floating inside, as the spores whirled around them, seemingly in time to the music. “It is indeed _A Time for Sunrise_ , my friend,” she said as she laid her hands against the cube’s wall, allowing the familiar ecstatic music … the singing rebab and sitars … the rolling drums … the crying violins … droning, wailing hurdy-gurdy … the howling electric guitars … to fill the marrow of her bones.

 

“Commodore Paris, what is it?” Culber asked, coming to stand beside her.

 

She smiled at him. “ _A Time for Sunrise_ ; that is the name of the piece of music Philippa is teaching Michael to dance, Dr. Culber. It was composed by an ancestor of mine about two hundred years ago—just after the end of World War Three—to celebrate the birth of her first daughter, and it is _tradition_ for all the daughters of my mother’s family to learn to dance it. Years ago, when I brought Philippa and Katrina to my home for our first leave on Earth from _Excalibur_ , my mother insisted on teaching them to dance it.”

 

“Wow, that is so beautiful,” the young man said, gazing at her with new understanding; Farzaneh chuckled softly.

 

She closed her eyes and lost herself to the swollen tides of the music as it enveloped her, ebbing and flowing over her in an endless rhythm. Against the dawn sky painted brilliant hues of lilac, rose, orange … so many other colours she had no words for, she saw Philippa and Michael dancing, silhouetted on the horizon by the first glimmering of the rising sun.

 

Two slender figures, robed in veils of light, undulated and swayed, hips swivelling, supple arms sinuous and enticing … and above all, there was utter _joy_ flowing from them in great waves, like the spices her mother used in cooking that Farzaneh could almost smell, taste and even touch now in a way she never could again since her mother’s death over fifteen years ago. Suddenly, she became aware of a third glowing figure on the horizon, set apart from the other two, and as she focussed on it, it drew rapidly closer—an iron filing drawn to a magnet.

 

It was a _child_ —no, a _girl_ on the cusp of womanhood, no more than fifteen or sixteen—with a rich chocolate-brown complexion and incredibly sad dark eyes, diffidently twisting the hem of her blouse. She resembled a younger version of Michael.

 

_“You are my Mama Pippa’s Zana.”_

 

The statement reverberated in Farzaneh’s ears, enveloping her with certainty; it was not a question. _My Mama Pippa_.

 

 _“Yes,”_ Farzaneh replied simply, the word echoing around her as if reflected off a thousand different surfaces.

 

The girl smiled; the sun rose from behind painted clouds. _“Will you teach me to dance the sunrise, Auntie Zana?”_ she asked shyly.

 

 _“Yes, oh yes, my sweet, sweet girl,”_ Farzaneh breathed fervently.

 

 _Philippa is bringing a daughter into our House_ ; the thought of it filled her heart to bursting, as she brought her hand up to caress the girl’s face. This close, the dear child looked even younger and more vulnerable.

 

_“What is your name, my dear?”_

 

“ _Lisa. Well, Elisabeth Rose,”_ she said with a wry smile as she began to follow Farzaneh’s simple swaying; Farzaneh hadn’t realised that she’d unconsciously started to dance again. _“But no one calls me that—only my Mom, when she was mad, and Daddy … when he was still alive. I’ve always been simply Lisa.”_

 

 _“Oh, my dear girl, there is nothing_ simple  _about names; each has a power that_ you  _must_ choose  _to own—both the name and the power it bestows on you.”_

 

_“Thank you, Auntie Zana.”_

 

There were tears in her glowing eyes, as her supple brown arms rose above her head to mimic Farzaneh’s, like curls of smoke dancing on the air. Lisa’s hips fell into the natural rhythm of the dance far more readily than Philippa’s had all those years ago; even with her years of dance training, or perhaps because of it, Pippa had been incredibly stiff at first—more so than Katrina, sensual hedonist that she was—but she’d learned quickly.

 

 _“Wouldn’t you have rather learned the dance from Philippa,”_ Farzaneh ventured gently. _“She is teaching Michael, isn’t she?”_

 

Lisa laughed, bright and sparkling like sunlight on water.

 

 _“She doesn’t teach Michael as much as she is becoming more of Michael and Michael is becoming more of Philippa; they are becoming one,”_ she replied, twirling with Farzaneh, as violin and sitar spiralled through them. _“They are in a private place, in this moment—a place of love—and I don’t want to intrude. I could if I truly wanted to; in this place, privacy is relative and they’ve welcomed me between them. They are newest and still so incredibly_ them _—they’re the beacons that will lead us to home again—all of us trapped here in this place of thought without time or boundary.”_

 

Farzaneh’s breath hitched as understanding caught and held fast.

 

 _“I suppose no teenager wants to see her parents making love,”_ she chortled at last and the girl giggled.

 

 _“Duh … that would be a big, fat_ NO! _”_

 

She stopped, suddenly very diffident and uncertain again. _“We come soon, my new mothers and I,”_ she whispered, incredibly forlorn again; Farzaneh’s heart stopped. _“We come with the change of the tides in this place. They are being allowed a short rest now—they’ve both been through a lot, especially Mama—but afterward, they must first lead many of the people, who are trapped here, to an Otherwhere. They are to be Vessel and Anchor. And once those who want to go to that other place are safe, Mama Pippa and Mimi will bring me, and those who want to come—like Dr. Helen and her kids—home to you. It's why the Guardian had my Tardigrade bring them here …_

 

 _“But I’ve been here very long, and yet, not long enough. Do you think they’ll still like me when I’m back in the real world again, Auntie Zana? I don’t know that my own mother even liked me that much—she always told me that she loved me. But … I was always too afraid of everything, never bold and brave like she wanted me to be. I was such a_ disappointment _.”_

 

 _“They will_ love  _you, Lisa,”_ Farzaneh replied with utter conviction, willing the girl to know it. _“That I am speaking to you right now, means that they love you_ already _; I know this as surely as I know that I will meet you here, in this world, very soon. Never fear, child, they love you and I love you already. And I know that your mother loved you, Lisa; she loved you … even when she perhaps couldn’t always express it in a way you wished that she would—that is a failing of all parents, I think. But I know that your mother loved you very much; she raised a brave, beautiful girl who would walk across time and space to give me this message. I will do my best to prepare for your coming and for all those who will come with Philippa and Michael.”_

 

Lisa was crying, her body ghostly and more indistinct now as she shook with the force of her tears; Farzaneh’s hand went through her as she reached for her.

 

_“I was so afraid,” she confessed mournfully. “I didn’t want to disappoint Mom, but I didn’t want to be a singer—I love to sing … in the church choir or in my school’s glee club, I love to sing, but I don’t like performing … not the way she wanted me to … can you understand that?”_

 

 _“Oh yes, my darling girl, I can and do understand that,”_ Farzaneh husked, wishing she could hold her.

 

Then suddenly, she was there … achingly real … warm and safe in Farzaneh’s arms. For a moment … for an eternity. And then came the pain and the memories … scorching every neuron with agony and all Farzaneh could do was _scream_.

 

 _“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”_ Lisa cried in panic and horror as she moved swiftly away from Farzaneh. _“That shouldn’t have happened! Not here! Oh God! Oh God! I’m so sorry.”_

 

 _“It’s all right, Lisa,”_ Farzaneh husked. _“I’m all right.”_

 

_“You shouldn’t have seen that!”_

 

 _“I know … oh, my dear, dear child, I know, and I am so sorry for everything you had to endure,”_ Farzaneh whispered, tears flowing down her face. _“And you are so_ incredibly brave _, never doubt that—you must have been so frightened, but you were still so brave.”_

 

She swiped her tears with the back of her hand. _“Mimi and Mama Pippa say that too, but it’s so hard to believe when_ everything  _scares me so much.”_

 

 _“Then_ believe  _them, dear girl,”_ Farzaneh counselled gently. _“I am decades older than you, my dear, but I’m still afraid of many,_ many  _things. I’m just old enough to hide it better,”_ she chuckled. _“Pippa, our friend Kat, my cousin Nara … they always seem so fearless to me, and for a long time, I envied that. But from them, I have learned that being brave does not mean being unafraid.”_

 

Lisa nodded and leaned into Farzaneh again; she gathered the girl to her, but it was like trying to hold smoke.

 

 _“I’ll see you soon,”_ came the whisper from nowhere and everywhere at once in a maelstrom of light dancing about her.

 

 _“I look forward to it, dearest!”_ Farzaneh shouted. _“I’ll be waiting!”_

 

_“When our time comes, light your beacon again, Auntie Zana, make it as bright as you can …”_

 

#


	24. Interlude

Philippa’s heart is in freefall, plummeting away from her as she and Michael try desperately to reach Lisa’s mind. But the slender thread of awareness, binding their daughter to them, is strangely absent. They’d awakened to her still reclining against Mama Bear, but the happy giggling girl is nowhere to be found; only a motionless form lies staring unseeingly up at the black void of space, clutching Boo tightly as a galaxy of mycelial spores swirls them.

 

Moments before the mother Tardigrade appeared in their mindscape roaring her distress, they’d known that _something_ was wrong with their daughter, when that increasingly familiar presence in their minds abruptly went silent, jolting them from the rhythm of their dance.

 

Michael catches Lisa’s chin and forces their unresponsive daughter’s head to face her as Philippa pulls her into her lap; Lisa’s dark brown eyes are open, but heartbreakingly devoid of any awareness.  Grabbing Michael’s hand, Philippa focuses her entire being on pushing into whatever mindscape has Lisa so enthralled, but she and Michael are unable to pass through the barrier; it is a solid wall of _nothingness_ that frightens them beyond comprehension.

 

"Lisa! Elisabeth, listen to me," Michael calls frantically, when they are unable to recover their link to their daughter and enter her mind. "You need to come out of this dreamscape. You must withdraw! Lisa, you must withdraw! Do you understand?"

 

"Come back, darling—please, _please_ come back!" Philippa begs, adding her voice to Michael’s, as that formless dread tightens its grip about her heart; she has been a mother for such a short time, yet she cannot imagine life without Lisa.

 

The girl gives a loud cry, reaching sightlessly for _something_ , before slumping back against Philippa. Michael quickly removes Boo from Lisa’s unresisting grasp and places her in Mama Bear’s forepaws. Philippa makes soothing noises in relief as she gathers Lisa close, stroking her hair in relief. Her daughter’s shoulders shake as she begins to cry great heaving sobs. She lays her head against Philippa’s shoulder; Philippa feels like an oppressive weight has been lifted from her chest.

 

“I’m _sorry_ I hurt Auntie Zana,” she cries hoarsely to Philippa’s great shock. “I’m so sorry I _hurt_ her.”

 

“How did you hurt Zana, dearest?” Philippa asks holding Michael flabbergasted gaze, as Lisa curls into her and begs forgiveness.

 

"I'm sorry ... I didn't mean to.  I saw her on the other side of the glass … heard her say you were teaching Mimi to dance the sunrise, the way her mom taught you and Auntie Kat to do, when she first brought you home with her—I just wanted to talk her.  Please, I'm so sorry, Mama ... I'm sorry I hurt her."

 

Philippa is entirely too shocked to form a coherent sentence. She kisses Lisa’s damp forehead.

 

“How did you see and hear Commodore Paris, Lisa?” Michael asks softly.

 

“She is there … where your bodies are out in the real world, Mimi,” she replies sniffling. “On the other side of the glass—and she can hear the music of _you_ while you float among the spores … she said that the music Mama was teaching you to dance was composed by her ancestor hundreds of years ago, after the last World War, to celebrate the birth of her daughter.”

 

“Yes, it was,” Philippa says quietly, meeting Michael’s stunned gaze over Lisa’s head.

 

“She was speaking to Lieutenant Stamets and your officers, Mama—Dr. Culber, Commander Landry and Cadet Tilly … maybe more, but I didn’t see them.” She is silent for a long moment before continuing. “I just wanted to meet her … to let her know you’d be coming back soon, and that you’d be bringing me and the others who want to come to your world. And I wanted her to teach me the dance,” she whispers softly … guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

 

Michael sits on the other side of Lisa and gathers both her and Philippa into her embrace—it is awkward, but it feels safe after this shock.

 

“We’re not angry, dearest,” Philippa replies, continuing to stroke Lisa’s hair and back. “But you did scare us a great deal when you disappeared from our bond and we couldn’t feel you—we couldn’t even get into your mindscape to find out what was wrong. Your Mama Bear also came into our mindscape to let us know something was wrong.”

 

“And you were so unresponsive—” Michael husks and Lisa turns to hug her.

 

“You can _feel_ me?” she asks, surprised.

 

“Yes,” Michael replies, wiping her tears. “Even before I went into Philippa’s illusion, I’d started to feel you.”

 

“And I, from the moment I left that illusion, my darling,” Philippa explains smiling as she gathers her in again.

 

“What happened with Commodore Paris?” Michael asks after a few moments of silence, during which their bond with Lisa continues to grow palpably stronger as they reconnect with her. “How did you hurt her?”

 

“The spores,” she whispers looking down at her hands nervously fidgeting in her lap. “They were changing the spores that were in the cube with you—Dr. Culber said that Mama was teaching you to dance, Mimi … that she would do the action and you would copy it. Mama Bear was feeding Boo and me—I realised that I could hear and see them … and I was aware of you guys dancing the sunrise in your mindscape, but it was private and I didn’t want to intrude.”

 

Philippa meets Michael’s awestruck gaze again over Lisa’s head, as she continues softly.

 

“Then Auntie Zana started to dance—somehow, they can hear your music—she laughed and called you her _“darling little witch”_. I didn’t mean to … I mean, I didn’t realise I could, but I must have really wanted it, because suddenly I was there with her, dancing and talking. She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?”

 

“Yes, she is,” Philippa murmurs.

 

“And she’s great to talk to—she said that she still got scared, like I do, except she’s old enough to hide it better.” Lisa giggles, sniffling a little as she meets Philippa’s gaze. “She told me the same thing you guys did—that _“being brave doesn’t mean being unafraid”_. And when I told her that I didn’t know if my Mom even liked me because I was always such a coward, she told me that Mom loved me very much and that _“she raised a brave, beautiful girl who would walk across time and space”_ to give her that message. She said that Mom loved me and you guys love me and that she loves me already.”

 

“And she’s right, Lisa,” Michael assures her. “We do love you; please, _please_ don’t doubt that.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers quietly, sniffling a little. “I love you too.”

 

Philippa’s heart skips a beat, and she feels Michael answering emotions as well.

 

Lisa continues in that same quiet voice. “I also wanted to tell her that you were coming back with me and the others who want to go to your world—that she needed to prepare for you to return and to light the beacon when the time came to guide our way back to your world.”

 

“What beacon?” Michael asks the same question burning in Philippa’s mind, but from the incredulous expression on Lisa’s face, this should be obvious to them. After a moment of staring at them, disbelief turns into confusion and then despondency.

 

Lisa gives a surprising growl of pure frustration, as she burrows deeper into Philippa’s embrace—hiding her face as her emotions flare with definite shame.

 

“I am such an _idiot_ , Mimi,” she confesses with no little amount of chagrin and misery. “I _finally_ screw up my courage to do something and I completely mess up! I didn’t _think_ to tell her what the beacon was.”

 

Philippa laughs; this she can handle, she thinks as she presses another kiss to Lisa’s forehead. “You did good, darling—don’t worry, I’m sure Zana will figure it out … whatever it is. She’s good at solving puzzles.”

 

Michael gathers them both close again and Philippa loses herself in their love and safety.

 

#

 


	25. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one this evening. Enjoy!

It was Katrina who caught her as she collapsed, going down heavily to her knees to guide Farzaneh’s limp, uncooperative body gently to the deck. She clutched Farzaneh convulsively to her bosom, as her thin arms tightened around Farzaneh’s body with wiry strength.

 

 _“Okay … is okay, Kat,”_ Farzaneh soothed, raising a heavy hand to her friend’s face, as Katrina repeated _“Oh God!”_ over and over. “It’s okay; I am _all right_ , Katrina.”

 

“Don’t do that!” Katrina growled, moving her face away from Farzaneh’s fingers … away from her attempts to comfort. “Don’t _fucking_ do that, Zana! I thought I’d lost you too—I can’t bear to lose you too!”

 

“Shh … Katrina, you’re not losing me, dearest,” she said as Culber’s kind face came into her field of view; he scanned her head and dispensed a hypospray against her neck. She concentrated on Katrina, on pulling her back from that abyss she knew gaped large and deep before her friend.

 

“I promise you won’t lose me, not for a very long time—in fact, we’re about to gain a lot more,” she chuckled and Katrina looked down at her in confusion; confusion was good, as it anchored her in the here and now. “I had a message; Philippa and Michael will return soon, and they’re bringing with them a _daughter_ , Kat—a bright, brave, beautiful _daughter_ for our House.”

 

 _“What?”_ Kat’s disbelief and outrage were clear. “Is she still hallucinating?” she barked at Culber.

 

“No, Admiral Cornwell,” the young doctor replied patiently. “And I don’t _know_ that Commodore Paris was hallucinating in the first place, ma’am. What I said was that her brain scans _looked_ like that of a person who was experiencing a hallucination.”

 

“I was _not_ hallucinating, Katrina,” she said forcefully, pushing herself into a sitting position. Katrina settled on the deck behind her, stretching out her legs and pulling Farzaneh to recline against her chest. She allowed it because she knew how much comfort her friend received from the contact, and she was too bloody exhausted to care about how it looked to her colleagues and subordinates.

 

“Lieutenant Stamets,” Farzaneh called to the engineer, who focused on her with those pale, pale eyes. “Can you track the energy of the mycelial spores from the moment you infused them into the drive cube? Trace not the spores, _per se_ , but the mycelial _energy_ itself?”

 

“Yes, Commodore Paris,” he said smartly, “one moment ma’am.”

 

It took less than two minutes for him to bring up the display. Farzaneh felt her face heat with embarrassment as she watched herself swaying to _A Time for Sunrise_ , with her hands pressed against the drive cube.

 

“That brings back memories,” Katrina quipped in her ear, and she groaned as Irailo chuckled from somewhere behind them; with her luck, _half the_ _damned Admiralty_ was probably in engineering right now watching her dance.

 

“We’ve coloured the individual spores yellow and their energy is blue,” Tilly reported, as the spores that swirled around Michael’s and Philippa’s bodies, suddenly left them and clustered at the transparent wall near Farzaneh. Incredibly, the blue-white energy bled off the spores, migrating across the wall to coalesce around Farzaneh, before resolving into a recognisable humanoid shape in front of her, which moved in time to the music with Farzaneh and copied her actions.

 

“ _That_ is Lisa,” Farzaneh said triumphantly as Katrina’s breath caught sharply. “Her full name is Elisabeth Rose, she is fifteen years old and looks a bit like a young Michael, whom she calls _Mimi_ , while she calls Philippa, _Mama Pippa_. It’s juvenile for a teenager, I’ll admit, but from what I understand, she’s been trapped on the mycelial plane for a _very_ long time, and I get the feeling that she—and the others who are trapped there—are on the verge of losing themselves, losing their _identities_. Therefore, Philippa and Michael were brought there to lead them off the mycelial plane, but Lisa desperately needs them to be parents to her. I am already her _Auntie Zana_ , and when she gets here, you will be her _Auntie Kat_ ; I promise you that, Katrina.”

 

 _“How?”_ Katrina croaked; she cleared her throat. “How did she get there?”

 

“I know that it’s hard to believe, but she _teleported_ there.”

 

There was dead silence and Farzaneh knew that Katrina … that they were _all_ contemplating a psych evaluation. She chuckled softly.

 

“In the world Lisa comes from, she is what’s known as one of the People of Tomorrow—or something like that—children in their early to mid-teens who begin manifesting extraordinary abilities during puberty. I suspect that this may not be a natural evolution, as there was also a space ship from another world or perhaps from their future, that had crash landed on an island thousands of years ago, to which all the children first teleport, which apparently happened when they were under a lot of stress.

 

“Lisa comes from the past—1992 to be exact—and probably another timeline or universe altogether. She was pressured by her mother to perform in a high-stress situation, and it sounds like she had a massive panic attack stemming from her stage-fright. She teleported for the first time in front of an audience, found the ship, containing an artificial intelligence, and a boy who had teleported there earlier, and explained to her that they were  _the next iteration of Humanity_. Another boy also teleported there, who seemed to know her … had been dreaming about her, and she also instinctively knew him although they’d never met before. To me, this seems like an experiment, but to what end, I have no clue. However—”

 

Farzaneh’s voice broke in the shocked silence and she cleared her throat. “However, when Lisa tried to teleport back home, she returned to the exact place on the stage she’d disappeared from, and someone was waiting for her with what sounds like some sort of energy containment unit—and for them to have done so, they must have _known_ that these children existed and that after their first teleport, they returned to the _exact place_ they disappeared from, because it was safer than misjudging and ending up in a wall or something. The pain from the containment unit was _excruciating_ and she tried to teleport back to the island to warn the others, but she couldn’t escape … it just resulted in more pain. Eventually, she tried to commit  _suicide_ against the energy barrier and ended up in _a place of thought without time or boundary_.”

 

“And she’s coming back with Pippa and Michael?” Katrina said softly.

 

“Yes, along with what sounds like a small group of people that want to return here—according to Lisa, Philippa and Michael will convey the majority of the people trapped on the mycelial plane to an _Otherwhere_. Once they’re safe, our ladies will return home with Lisa and their group. We need to prepare for them.”

 

“How?” Louis-Georges demanded.

 

“I have _no_ bloody idea,” Farzaneh replied with a laugh. “All I know is what she shouted to me as she faded away, _“When our time comes, light your beacon again—make it as bright as you can.”_

 

“Light your beacon?” Katrina asked in confusion as Farzaneh pulled away from her and sat up straighter. “What beacon?”

 

“I don’t know,” she reiterated with some exasperation, as Louis-George helped her to her feet. “The only other time she mentioned a beacon was when she was speaking about Pippa and Michael leading them from the mycelial plane; she said that _“they are the beacons that will lead us to home again.”_ But I just thought she was being metaphorical.”

 

Farzaneh helped Katrina to stand. “We’ll figure it out, Katrina,” she comforted her friend.

 

“Uh … Commodore Paris, ma’am,” Tilly said timidly; Farzaneh turned to face her.

 

“Yes, what is it, Cadet Tilly?” she asked, smiling as not to intimidate the brilliant girl. She liked Sylvia Tilly, but the young woman was more skittish than a doe in the midst of a pack of wolves—and with all the Brass crowding engineering, the poor child had every reason to be.

 

“Sorry for speaking out of t-turn, but I think I know what she m-m-meant—Captain Georgiou’s a-and Michael’s Lisa,” the girl stuttered.

 

Farzaneh chuckled as she met Katrina’s shocked gaze. “Go ahead, Cadet Tilly,” she prompted gently. “If you can shed some light on what Lisa meant, then you are not _speaking out of turn_ and there is _no_ need for you to apologise.”

 

Tilly nodded, straightening perceptibly as she drew confidence from Farzaneh’s encouragement. “If I’m reading our scans properly, you have the highest concentration of mycelial energy in your body right now, ma’am—after the captain and Michael that is,” she said to Farzaneh’s shock. “More so than even Lieutenant Stamets and the engineering team, given that we’re always interacting with the spores—even Dr. Culber has comparable amounts because of all the time he spends here. However, Michael’s and Captain Georgiou’s high readings come from their interaction not only with the spores, but with the Tardigrade’s transfusion of _ichor_ and their connection to the mycelial plane. I think that when Lisa interacted with you as pure undiluted spore energy, she transferred some of it to you—if you’ll look at the recording, you’ll see that you were glowing, ma’am. The entire time you were dancing and communicating with her, you were glowing. I think that _‘lighting the beacon as bright as we can’_ , means that we need to do a massive spore infusion. I mean, she came right after we made the infusion of fresh spores, and if the spores are what kept the Tardigrade—and now keeps the captain and Michael—oriented toward _this_ plane of reality, then it stands to reason that they may need a massive signature to orient Lisa and the other people they’re bringing from the mycelial plane.”

 

There was absolute silence for a moment, then Farzaneh laughed. “Bravo, Cadet Tilly!” she praised, clapping enthusiastically. “I don’t know how I’m going to bear giving you back to Philippa when she returns. I think I might just have to kidnap you, my dear,” she said as the girl blushed beet-red, which clashed horribly with her bright halo of copper hair.

 

“Get in line, Commodore Paris,” th’Zihl quipped. “I have first dibs on Ms Tilly and I outrank you!”

 

#

 


	26. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to take so long to update, but real life ... sigh ... I've had a bit of time to write over the Easter holiday, so I'll be posting over the next few days as soon as I can get things edited. Enjoy!

Michael is sitting on a rock just above the shoreline—still within sight of Philippa and Lisa lying on the sand. She cannot help the tears that come with the ache of their re-established bond with Lisa.

 

Unbidden, Philippa’s arms circle around her from behind.

 

“She’s all right, love,” Philippa murmurs. “She’s all right.”

 

Even with those soothing words in her ear, Michael is overwhelmed by the enormity of what just happened.

 

“She could have died while we were—”

 

Her sobs overcome her and she feels Philippa’s guilt as keenly as she feels her own.

 

“While we were making love,” Philippa husks, sitting down on the rock and drawing her close again.

 

Michael nods, unable to speak with the great, hard lump lodged in her throat.

 

“I know, my darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to Michael’s temple. “I feel the same guilt—every parent feels that way, no matter how small the incident—but you can’t let it rule you. We will have to set some ground rules with her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching Farzaneh raise her boys, it’s that you can’t wrap her in cotton wool and lock her in a padded room—no matter how much you might want to.”

 

“You’re sure about that?” Michael quips, the tight knot in her throat loosening a little.

 

“Pretty sure,” Philippa chuckles softly. “And given that our daughter can _teleport_ , I’d say we’d have a _dickens_ of a time enforcing that. But like Zana would say when her boys got into scrapes, “from the moment they can crawl, kids are going to do _dumb shit_ , but it’s all part of growing up”—you can’t let that paralyse you or make you too over-protective; you’ll go mad first or drive them away. You can talk to them, try to make them as safe as possible, but you’ve got to give kids space to breathe and to explore and to grow up. Now, I’d rather she didn’t go _haring_ _off_ to explore other universes without us—”

 

Michael laughs, laying her forehead on Philippa’s.

 

“Or at least not without telling us that she’s going to pop over to another _plane of reality_ for a bit,” she says, dark eyes sparkling with humour, but the pain still lingers.

 

“I’m scared, Philippa,” she admits after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t even consider the ramifications when I first started feeling that bond with Lisa—she was crying and I just wanted to hold her, comfort her and _never_ let go. Now I wonder …”

 

“If you did the right thing regarding her,” Philippa finishes quietly. “If your decision was clouded by your need for her help in reaching me.” Michael shudders; guilt bubbles up. “That’s only natural, and perhaps it was part of it, but greatest part is that you saw _her_ —a child with a great deal of love to give, looking for someone to love her back … and you did, Michael; you’ve loved her from the start. She’s been here all this time, dearest, with all these people trapped here with her, and she didn’t bond with anyone until you—until you took her into your arms and made her feel safe enough to cry for everything she’s lost … safe enough to show you that frightened, vulnerable little girl. As we’ve told her repeatedly, it’s all right to be scared. And I’m scared too, love. This is brand new and completely unexpected for both of us, but it isn’t _unwelcome_ , is it?”

 

And Michael can _feel_ Philippa’s fear, read it in every coiled muscle in her unnaturally still body.

 

“No, it is not unwelcome … _never_ that; just scary as all hell—if I believed in _hell_ , that is,” Michael quips and Philippa chortles a quiet laugh, the tension in her body visibly abating.

 

Philippa rises and holds her hand out. “Come love, she’s sleeping and she’s safe, but I don’t want to leave her for longer than we need to. Let’s rest while we can.”

 

Michael takes her hand and they return to their daughter, lie down on either side of her and slip into her dreams.

 

#

 

They awaken in the white room, the Guardian and the Guide looking expectantly at them. Philippa’s apprehension slams over their link and Michael gasps, before her love clamps down on it, and her need to flee Tam Elbrun’s presence abates.

 

Lisa rises and automatically moves towards him, her soft, sleepy, “Hey Tam,” greeting him, before looking back at Philippa and Michael in confusion.

 

“Hello, Little One,” he replies gently, his glowing hand reaching out to cup her chin; energy flows between them—a caress for a caress, Michael realises.

 

Lisa closes her eyes, swaying slightly. The air is filled with golden motes of spores swirling around them and a quiet humming. Michael feels Philippa’s overwhelming concern as she steps towards their daughter; oddly, Michael doesn’t feel that they have anything to fear from the Guardian.

 

Lisa leans into him; she is golden and glowing, her arms wrapping around his waist as he strokes her hair and back.

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice slightly muffled. “I understand now.”

 

“I am glad.” He steps away and she opens her eyes, grinning up at him. “So, I did _good_?”

 

She laughs and gazes fondly over her shoulder at Michael and Philippa. “Yeah, you did real good, Tam.”

 

“I’m glad,” he repeats. “I wish I could give you and your mothers more time here, but it’s too dangerous to wait much longer.”

 

“There are still too many trapped in their illusions and mindscapes,” Lisa replies, sounding far too mature now. “And we have to get them out before we can even give them a choice of worlds to live the rest of their lives.”

 

“Yes. Your mothers must begin within this cycle, while I am still strong enough.”

 

“Still strong enough?” Philippa asks as they move to flank Lisa. Tam Elbrun smiles sadly.

 

“Each of the creatures you see up there,” he says gesturing expansively at the ceiling, still teeming with organisms, “and this simple representation is but a minuscule fraction of the organisms here—each one exists at a different _quantum_ _moment_ , if you will, on the vast continuum of my _Gomtuu’s_ existence. And as you can imagine, Philippa Georgiou, for a being that is older than this particular omnicord of universes, she has a lot of _moments_ that _have_ provided—and will _continue_ to provide—nourishment for the organisms here for an _unimaginable_ time. Gomtuu is now intrinsic to the ecosystem of this mycelial plane, as you call it. However, it also means that you tortured not only Lisa, but _us_ when you tortured the Tardigrade, as each organism that comes into union with us becomes intrinsic to the _mind and being_ that is Gomtuu and me, which lingers here as our body is consumed. And as _her_ strength is _my_ strength, that which weakens _me_ , weakens _her_.”

 

As the enormity of what she’d done floods Philippa, it drowns her in another tsunami guilt and horror following in its wake. Her soul cries out in despair and Michael is helpless to answer, for she has no words. But before she can move to take her love in her arms, to offer what comfort she might, Tam Elbrun is there, taking Philippa into his arms.

 

And they are gone before Michael can do no more than make a panicked grasp at empty air. And she thinks, _Oh God, not again … please, please, not again ..._

 

#

 


	27. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I've been sporadic of late in posting, so here is a longer chapter, which I hope is worth the wait.
> 
> As usual, let me know if there are any unsightly blemishes, as again, I'm posting at 3:30 in the morning - can't let a good bout of insomnia go to waste! LOL!

When the laughter died down, Louis-Georges had taken charge and escorted the group off the ship. Farzaneh allowed Katrina to frog-march her to sickbay, so that Dr. Culber could do a comprehensive check-up to assure her friend that she wasn’t going to _‘burn up with mushroom energy’_ , and then return her to the Flag Officer’s quarters Farzaneh had commandeered for the duration of her stay.

 

But before heading to sickbay, she’d managed a moment with Philippa’s Yeoman M’Kiliss and prevailed on the old Caitian to have Chef Zhang’s minions deliver dinner for two to her quarters.

 

“Sit, Katrina; eat,” she ordered now without preamble, uncovering the dishes laid out on her dining table. When her friend made to protest, Farzaneh pushed her bodily into a chair. “It is time to eat, Katrina,” she said firmly, ignoring the other woman’s brimming tears in favour of dishing out a plate of rice, butter chicken, naan and saag paneer. She was careful not to overload the plate; just a little of everything.

 

As she placed the plate in front of Katrina, she was heartened to see that her old friend had already placed her napkin on her lap and had her fork in hand. Dropping a gentle kiss on Katrina’s forehead, she turned her attention to dishing out her own plate, smiling at the quiet scrape of metal against china. Sitting beside her, Farzaneh tucked into her own meal, suddenly incredibly aware of her own hunger; the burst of heat and spices from the chicken, with the subtle flavour of the basmati rice, drew an involuntary moan of pleasure from her.

 

“Commander Landry has certainly outdone herself tonight.”

 

“Commander Landry?” Katrina asked in confusion.

 

Farzaneh nodded. “Philippa’s penchant for attracting odd-ball officers still runs true,” she chuckled and was happy to see Katrina’s answering grin. “Landry _cooks_ when overly stressed. Chef Zhang grumbles, but then makes sure that she has the best spices and freshest ingredients now that they’re back in system. He seems to think that keeping his officers supplied with their favourites is his calling; so, it’s the freshest blueberries for Saru, strawberries for Tilly … _mushrooms_ for Stamets.”

 

“Seriously?” Katrina laughed incredulously. _“Mushrooms?”_

 

“He apparently has a thing for Portobello burger melts!”

 

They ate, lapsing into silence occasionally punctuated with small talk, mostly about _Discovery_ and her crew. As well, Farzaneh reported on her meeting with Sanara and that Janor Shi’ri had arranged for Admiral T’Pol to head the Board of Inquiry into Philippa actions in Klingon space, and most likely Tilly’s proceedings, since Starfleet had seen fit to link the two.

 

Moving to the living room, they settled on the couch with a glass of wine each and small bowls of gulaab jamun for dessert. Normally, she would refrain from indulging, but Kat can do with the extra calories and Farzaneh’s always been a sucker for the little balls of sweet creaminess drenched with rose flavoured syrup.

 

She sat back to sip her wine, as Katrina savoured tiny bites of the confection.

 

“So, do you want to talk about it?” she prompted gently.

 

“No.”

 

Farzaneh chuckled. “No, I don’t suppose you do. You never _want_ to talk, so why should this time be any different? And we both know how _unhealthy_ that is—especially for a psychiatrist, who should know better.”

 

“Yes.” She sighed and put the bowl down on the coffee table, before picking up her wineglass and taking a healthy gulp. She sat back and laid her head against Farzaneh’s shoulder. “I’m so tired, Zana.”

 

“I know, dear,” Farzaneh replied, turning her head to kiss Katrina’s temple. “But Pippa will have _my_ head if I let you collapse in on yourself from the weight of everything you take upon your shoulders.” She felt her friend’s chuckle vibrate against her neck. “And I don’t relish having to explain to our very formidable Captain Georgiou, when she returns, why the person she _relies_ on, to help keep _her_ head on straight, has lost her own under the strain.”

 

“ _He’s_ not mine, Zana,” she whispered after a few moments, tears soaking through Farzaneh’s uniform.

 

Farzaneh looked down at her dark head in confusion; there was only one _“he”_.

 

“Who is _he_ then?”

 

She only cried harder. Resting her wine glass on the coffee table, Farzaneh rescued Katrina’s from spilling and placed it beside her own. She then gathered her friend into her arms and held her until she’d bawled her eyes out.

 

“He’s an imposter,” she answered finally, voice thin and hoarse.

 

“Klingon?” Fear raced up Farzaneh’s spine, only to be doused with confusion again as Katrina laughed bitterly.

 

“I could only wish,” she replied, moving out of Farzaneh’s embrace and leaning back against the couch, eyes closed as tears continued to stream down her cheeks. “That, at least, would be _rational_ —something I could wrap my mind around. But no, he’s not a Klingon infiltrator—although Louis-Georges may eventually use that as a cover story to bury him for the rest of his life—he’s _Human_ , Farzaneh,” she cried angrily. “He’s Human and he is _Gabriel Lorca_ … just not _my_ Gabriel Lorca, but one from another _fucking_ universe entirely!”

 

Farzaneh stared at her with uncomprehending shock for a few moments. _“What?”_

 

“It wasn’t _my Gabriel_ that returned after the destruction of the _Buran_ , Zana,” she choked out. “It wasn’t _my Gabriel_ I slept with … that Landry, Jessica Osbourne or all the others slept with as he consolidated his position and tried to undermine me and Louis-Georges … plotted to take Pippa’s ship. And I _thank God_ that it wasn’t _my Gabriel_ who was so _sickeningly obsessed_ with Michael that he had surveillance devices planted _inside_ her quarters—in her bedroom and in her _fucking bathroom_ —

 

“Zana, he obsessively viewed some of the recordings over and over and _over!_ ”

 

“Oh, my dear, _dear_ Katrina,” Farzaneh said gathering her in close again; she’d known about Katrina’s and Louis-Georges’ investigation into Lorca and his activities ever since Philippa had found those surveillance devices in her lover’s quarters, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything like _this_. “Do you know why he’s so obsessed with her?”

 

“He knew her counterpart in his universe; as soon as he found out that she was a brilliant quantum physicist in this universe, and about _Discovery’s_ unique mode of travel, he knew she would have the expertise to get him home—and that’s why he fought so hard to get her out of prison … and why he fought Philippa for this command. He might have got it too; he was Costo Bren’s top candidate, despite his vision problems. But he didn’t reckon on a confluence of events, chief among which was Philippa’s surviving T’Kuvma’s blade and being such a demon with her recovery … and he didn’t reckon on _you -_ replacing the admiral in Personnel—you really threw a spanner into the works by assigning him to security,” she said with a sad chuckle.

 

“But more than that, in his universe, there is _no Federation_ ,” she whispered, “only the _Terran Empire_ , which has conquered and subjugated almost the _entire_ alpha quadrant and much of the beta, including the Klingons—whom they have _bombed_ back to the stone age—and the Romulans. Lorca was one of the Emperor’s closest advisors, but he wanted to _be_ the Emperor, so he seduced the Crown Princess—a young woman he apparently helped to raise from _nine years old_ —and convinced her to try and take the throne. He felt that the current Emperor was being too lenient with the other species … not brutal enough with their subjugation … not _genocidal_ enough with their _extermination_.

 

“Zana, I feel so _dirty_ just listening to him now without the filter of lies we demolished with the truth serum,” she cried, “so dirty and so _stupid_ that I didn’t realise that it wasn’t _him_.”

 

Farzaneh forced herself to focus on Katrina, on helping her friend get back to a place of peace and strength that this imposter had _violated_ so brutally.

 

“How were you to know, dearest?” she asked gently. “How were _you_ to know that he could be an imposter? He knew you, didn’t he? Because he knew your counterpart in that warped mirror of a universe?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And _she_ was  _his_ lover, wasn’t she? A long-standing relationship like you had with your Gabriel?”

 

Katrina nodded, tears pouring down her face. “They have a child together … a _daughter_ ,” she whispered.

 

And it blew Farzaneh’s mind then, as she considered the same lives and motifs that played out in the myriad omnicordial universes across the multiverse. “I knew she had to have been very close to him for him to have known enough about _you_ to play the _Machiavelli_ so well. Who is she there?”

 

“She’s the Imperial Interrogator, Grand Admiral Katrina Cornwell,” she replied, drying her eyes and regarding Farzaneh ruefully.

 

Farzaneh gaped at her in shock. “And me? Am I also there?” Katrina nodded.

 

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips now, which heartened Farzaneh immensely.

 

“I think I’d rather know than not. Knowledge is power, after all, and I’d rather not let anyone potentially have such power over me if I can help it. _She_ is not me—just like that Katrina is not _you_.”

 

“She is their Emperor’s wife.”

 

_“Seriously?”_

 

“Seriously,” Katrina affirmed with a grin.

 

“So, who is the Emperor?” Farzaneh asked, curiosity burning now. “Don’t tell me it’s some despotic version of _Owen_.”

 

“All right, I won’t,” she said, eyes twinkling mischievously.

 

 _“Kat!”_ Farzaneh complained and smacked her arm. “Don’t be such a little _shit!_ ”

 

Katrina giggled explosively, and Farzaneh couldn’t help but laugh as well.

 

“The way Lorca tells it, your counterpart killed Owen, or had him killed, so that she could be with the Emperor,” Katrina finally revealed, shocking Farzaneh to her bones again. “And she framed his _lover_ for it in the process—care to guess who _that_ was?”

 

“Greaves.” Her voice was suddenly hollow as humour fled.

 

“Got it in one,” Katrina replied quietly. “The Emperor then had the very ambitious Ensign Mara Greaves executed for the crime and _that_ Farzaneh was elevated to _Imperial Consort_ a month later. Together, they’ve ruled their empire for over twenty years.”

 

“And the Emperor?”

 

“Philippa.”

 

Farzaneh felt sucker-punched, all the wind had been knocked out of her from a blow to the gut.

 

 _“All Hail her most Imperial Majesty, Mother of the Fatherland, Overlord of Vulcan, Dominus of Qo’noS, Regina Andor, All Hail Philippa Georgiou Augustus Iaponius Centarius,”_ Katrina intoned softly. _“And Empress Consort, Domina Farzaneh Mirzakhani Khan Augusta, Lux Aeterna Terrae.”_

 

 _“The Eternal Light of Earth?”_ Farzaneh translated. “What the _hell_ kind of title is that?”

 

“Apparently, _that_ Philippa was feeling particularly poetic when they first married,” Katrina chuckled. “So, she made it a formal part of her wife’s title. But that Farzaneh also apparently has a few other _unofficial_ titles, chief among them, _Imperatoria Venefica_ —” At Farzaneh’s confused frown, as she tried to work that out with her limited Latin skills, Katrina laughed and took pity on her. “According to Louis-Georges, it’s not particularly _good_ Latin, but more of a pun as it can mean both _‘Imperial Witch’_ and _‘Imperial Poisoner’_ —”

 

“Well shit.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Katrina said with a devilish grin. “Apparently, she’s almost as famous as Emperor Philippa for dispatching those who annoy her or get in her way—not quite as bloodily, but usually by the most exotic poisons possible, which _rarely_ have antidotes. But her most famous title is also probably her most benign; she is _Mother of the Empire’s Future_.”

 

“Thomas and Augin?” she said breathlessly; if she existed in this bizarre world with Philippa, Katrina, Owen … _Lorca_ , then she was sure her beautiful boys did as well.

 

“Heir Secondary and Heir Tertiary,” Katrina replied. “Although, with the death of Philippa’s daughter, they are now Primary and Secondary. However, Empress Farzaneh did raise the girl, from the age of four or five, as well.”

 

“Who was this girl?” Farzaneh asked, truly curious now.

 

Katrina smiled. “Can’t you guess?”

 

Farzaneh frowned as her mind raced to make the connection that Katrina was hinting at; and suddenly, it was there, obvious and glaring.

 

_“Michael.”_

 

“Yeah,” Katrina replied simply. “Apparently, _that_ Philippa Khan Xiu Ying started life as an _Imperial Assassin_ for Empress Hoshi Sato II—the Empress’ favourite, according to Lorca. Anyway, she was away on a covert assignment, to assassinate a radical Vulcan leader, when there was a palace coup by a cabal spearheaded by one General Christos Georgiou, who killed Empress Hoshi II, took the throne and became Emperor. Given the inevitable crackdown on Sato’s people, Louis-Georges immediately purged their files and both went to ground, slipping into their public Starfleet personas—he, a lowly lieutenant commander in Fleet Personnel, and she, a young security ensign transferred from a deep-space science station to a Fleet medical ship to bring it back up to strength after the coup.

 

“In very short order, the captain of the _Imperial Starfleet Ship Asclepius_ was found to be loyal to the old regime and plotting to put Hoshi Sato III, the previous Empress’ daughter or clone—Lorca wasn’t quite sure which—on the throne, when he was ostensibly killed by one Lieutenant Commander Doctor Katrina Cornwell, and since the motto there is, _“you keep what you kill”_ , she ascended to the captaincy. _Assassination_ is a very old and acceptable way to advance through the ranks of the _Imperial_ Starfleet.”

 

Katrina grinned at a stunned Farzaneh, who was quite sure her mouth was hanging open throughout the extraordinary tale. “Now, Lorca is fairly sure that it was _Philippa_ who actually killed Captain Singh and his cronies, but she was only documented as helping her new captain by killing the previous chief of security and a couple of other _rogue officers_. So, when _Asclepius_ and _Enterprise_ —Christopher Pike having wrested control from and killed Robert April with Lorca’s help—were summoned back to Earth to shore up Georgiou’s fleet of loyal ships, _young Ensign Philippa Khan_ , ostensibly with no ties to the Imperial Court or even to Earth, must have seemed like an irresistibly innocent, _impressionable young woman_ to the new Emperor when she accompanied Captain Cornwell, Captain Pike and Lieutenant Lorca to the execution of Hoshi III.

 

“Four months later, they were married. Within ten months, Emperor Christos Georgiou and his _entire_ cabal were dead and _Emperor Philippa Georgiou_ moved almost seamlessly onto the throne, with people loyal to her in every important position in the Empire, and nine-year-old Crown Princess Michael Burnham standing at her side during her coronation. How Philippa came to have custody of her, Lorca didn’t know—he suspects that she assassinated Burnham’s birth parents. But one thing he was sure of is that Michael had been under _Farzaneh’s_ care for over four years _before_ Christos even killed Empress Hoshi II. He had that directly from Owen, who was quite put-out that his wife had kept the child’s—and not to mention, the _mother’s_ —identity secret, and that she’d given Michael back to Philippa without consideration for the kind of _leverage_ they could have had over the new Emperor. Owen was so smug and sure of himself and his position, as one of the premiere Fleet Captains under consideration for the Admiralty—which was apparently more due to his wife’s political manoeuvring than his skill—that he never even considered how _idiotic_ it was to voice that thought aloud, given the nature of their society. He died without even learning of Augin’s conception—Lorca believes that Emperor Philippa _personally_ did the deed herself at her Farzaneh’s request.”

 

“I—I can’t even wrap my head around this, Kat,” Farzaneh said hoarsely after a long moment of silence.

 

“Imagine how I felt,” Katrina retorted with a bitter laugh. “ _This_ _Lorca_ talks a good game, but when Philippa’s and Farzaneh’s bloodhounds finally caught up with them, he sacrificed Michael as a distraction so that he could escape. Once it became known that Michael was a partner in inciting rebellion against the Emperor, Philippa had no choice but to put a bounty on her head as well, or appear weak—believe me, not a _good thing_ in a society like that. However, the order was to bring Michael back _alive_ to face her mamas, but Lorca set her up—set it up so that the bounty hunters would go after her shuttle thinking it was him, while he quietly slipped away—and it was only an accident with a freak ion storm that brought him to this universe.”

 

She began to cry again. “Farzaneh, the _Buran_ survived the Klingons and destroyed the _Bird of Prey_ , only to have _Lorca_ destroy them.” Farzaneh gaped in horror for a moment, then gathered Katrina close again, rocking her as she sobbed out her heartbreak. “He recognised immediately that he was in a parallel universe when _Gabe_ hailed him offering assistance to what he thought was a damaged _Federation_ shuttlecraft in distress. He knocked out his own communications pick-up so they couldn’t see him. Gabriel opened his ship to him, Zana,” she cried, “and brought him on board. But Lorca had set his shuttle’s shield emitters to overload with a wide-dispersion subspace stun field … it knocked out everyone in the shuttle bay and gave him a chance to steal one of _Buran’s_ shuttles to complete his cover. The _Buran’s_ shields were offline—knocked out during the battle—and with no shields, even a shuttle’s weapons can be a ship-killer. He _killed_ them—all so that he could take _my_ _Gabriel’s_ place. They were damaged and vulnerable, and they never stood a chance, Zana … they never stood a _chance!_ ”

 

After a few minutes of rocking Katrina and grieving with her, Farzaneh kissed her forehead. “That’s enough for tonight, dearest,” she said gently. “It’s time for bed.”

 

“I should get going,” Katrina said pulling away and swiping angrily at her tears. “There’s so much to do—”

 

 _“Enough,”_ Farzaneh said sternly in that no-nonsense voice she’d used with her boys when she needed them to know she’d had enough of their _bullshit_. “The work will be there tomorrow; you need rest and, after today, _I need rest_. Come to bed, Kat,” she said, rising and holding her hand out to her friend. After a moment, Katrina sighed and grasped the offered lifeline, docilely following her into the bedroom.

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Used Google Translate for the Latin bits in this chapter; if there are any Latin experts reading this, please let me know if I've irretrievably screwed up anything and I will attempt to fix it. LOL!
> 
> Also, I rewatched "The Chronicles of Riddick" recently, and "You keep what you kill" seemed like a perfect coda for Star Trek's Mirror Universe, so I borrowed it. Cheers!


	28. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some days I fear that I will never finish this! But then inspiration hits at the oddest times, and I do so hate to be a quitter. Enjoy!

Lisa’s hand squeezing hers is the only thing that keeps Michael grounded … keeps her from giving into the despair that floods her bond with Philippa, before it stops abruptly. And then Philippa … their bond … vanishes entirely, and it is worse than their experience with Lisa.

 

Michael is left with a black hole inside herself that threatens to consume her very _soul_.

 

“It’s okay, Mimi,” Lisa comforts gently, “Breathe.”

 

Michael obeys and as she exhales, Philippa returns, her pain slamming over their bond with the force of a tsunami. She jerks around, as if yanked by a noose looped around her heart and she finds the Guardian sitting on the ground by the panoramic window. Philippa is curled into his embrace, giving voice to the howling storm. He rocks her gently, tracing soothing circles on her back as he stares out the window, not acknowledging Michael, Lisa or the Guide as they approach.

 

Michael is anxious to say _something_ to soothe Philippa’s pain, but is uncertain of _what_ to say that will not potentially anger this powerful being again.

 

“Peace, Michael Burnham, I have no intention of harming your love any further,” he says quietly at last, lifting Philippa’s chin to regard her tearstained face; the storm abates and there is only summer rain and sunshine and healing.

 

“Captain Philippa Georgiou was, in my universe, and still is, a great source of inspiration to me—more so than all those famous  _cowboy captains_ that came after her,” he continues, smiling as the Guide chuckles and both Michael and Philippa gape at him in shock.

 

“Before I became my Gomtuu’s companion, I was a Federation First Contact Specialist—I was also born, have always been, and still am, a _very_ powerful telepath. So, you can well imagine the kind of arrogance that sort of power, combined with the callowness of youth, would bring to a negotiation table,” he says chuckling softly to the Guide’s raucous laughter. Lisa’s giggles are infectious, and Philippa gives into watery giggles of her own, which heartens Michael immensely.

 

“The lead diplomat, on my first mission, grabbed me by the scruff, hauled me back to the _USS Farragut_ , chucked me into a very small room with a mountain of PADDs, and _forbade_ me to leave until I’d memorised them _all_. And I’d just reached that point of frustration, where I was trying decide if losing control of his mind and speaking nonsense, or losing control of his bowels and _farting_ uncontrollably, would be worse for _Ambassador Spock of Vulcan_ ,” he says, eyes twinkling madly at Michael, as Philippa, Lisa and the Guide descend into utter hilarity.

 

Michael stares gobsmacked at him; the shock—at the thought of _Spock_ following in his _father’s_ footsteps and becoming a _diplomat_ —wars with all her protective instincts rising at the prospect of this being’s plotting to humiliate him. Even if he is a much older Spock, from one possible future … in a different _universe_ entirely … a couple of universes to the left of hers, he is still _her_ little brother!

 

“Just then I came across a century-old Starfleet Academy lecture series; _“The Art of Starship Diplomacy”_ , and its attendant academic papers, which drove all thoughts of revenge against Ambassador Spock from my mind.” His gaze moves from Michael, back to an astonished Philippa.

 

 _“Diplomacy is a lot like marriage,”_ he quoted her words gently to her, _“in that even after a lot of negotiation and hard work by both parties, it will still sometimes fail. And sometimes, what you do with that that failure may be as important, or_ more  _important than the marriage itself, for it may present an opportunity to explore other avenues, and perhaps turn a failed partnership into a deep and lasting friendship.”_

 

“I promptly devoured all of her work that Spock had left for me, and went looking for more,” he laughs softly, “only to find just a couple more papers on diplomacy, as the majority of her work focused on starship tactics and protocols aimed at young captains and officers. So, I devoured those as well. But I was also saddened to learn that Captain Philippa Georgiou _died_ at the beginning of the Klingon War, in the light of the binary stars, when diplomacy failed and there was no opportunity to explore any other avenue except _war_.”

 

Michael’s heart explodes with pain and guilt at the thought of Philippa dying in any universe … at the thought of _her_ _Philippa_ dying for her mistake and how easily she could have. Rising swiftly, Philippa gathers Michael into her arms, gently rocking her as she cries; instinctively reaching across their bond, Philippa wordlessly soothes her, assuring her that she is alive because _Michael_ did save her.

 

As the storm of Michael’s emotions breaks, Tam Elbrun continues his story with a wry smile.

 

“Until over a year later, when, in the middle of that grinding war, which Starfleet was losing badly, Michael Burnham—Captain Georgiou’s protégée and former first officer … Starfleet’s _first mutineer_ —stood on the soil of Qo’noS, holding the detonator to a bomb that her desperate Admiralty had _ordered_ planted at the heart of the planet, and showed mercy to _Lord_ _T’Kuvma’s_ _protégée_ , the Lady L’Rell. She gave the detonator to L’Rell, who used it as leverage to become Chancellor of the Empire, to bring the Great Houses to heel and to stop the war.”

 

“And did it forge a lasting peace between the Empire and the Federation?” Philippa asks, the hope evident in her voice; but she continues to comfort Michael while she pulls herself together.

 

It is the Guide who answers with laughter again; her humour is both incongruous and a welcome relief from the emotional storm still roiling within Michael.

 

“ _Ha!_ These are _Klingons_ we’re talking about, Captain Georgiou; they were never going to hold hands and sing _“Kumbaya”_. It took a lot of people on both sides and a lot of work on both sides, even when _both_ sides seemed hellbent on war. It took the legendary Captain James T. Kirk with his equally legendary first officer, _Commander_ _Spock_ ,” she says with a grin, obviously enjoying Michael’s shock again, “and his legendary crew of the Federation starship _Enterprise_ ; it took them beating the Klingons back, over and over, in the decades following the war, for their warriors to learn _respect_ for the Federation and to eventually lament the day that _“Kirk was not born a Klingon!”_ It took Kirk losing his only son, defending an injured Spock, as the Klingons tried to acquire an advanced piece of Federation terraforming technology that could create or destroy _entire worlds_.

 

“And it took Captain Rachel Garrett, another legendary captain of another starship named _Enterprise_ , throwing her ship and crew into a losing battle to defend a Klingon colony against a Romulan sneak attack; the _Enterprise C_ went down with all hands. It took a Starfleet chief petty officer, Sergey Rozhenko, and his wife adopting an orphaned Klingon boy from that doomed colony—Worf, Son of Mogh, of the House of Mogh—and raising him to become the _first_ _Starfleet_ officer of _Klingon_ descent.

 

“Worf served with honour and distinction on board another _Enterprise_ , under Captain Jean-Luc Picard, rising to become Picard’s chief security officer, and later displaying his warrior’s prowess on _Deep Space Nine_ during the Dominion War, and eventually accepting the post of Federation Ambassador to the Klingon Empire. And it took Captain Picard, chosen as Arbiter of Succession by the Klingon Chancellor, K’mpec, because he could not find a _Klingon_ warrior as _honourable_ as him, to find out the truth of who had poisoned K’mpec himself, and ensure that the Empire did not fall into chaos and anarchy in the transition after his death.

 

“It took a lot of people, my dears, and I’ve barely touched the Klingon side of the equation—I haven’t even told you of L’Rell, Mother of the Empire, who did her best to rebuild and keep the warmongers at bay, and who was eventually assassinated for her pains. Or Chancellor Gorkon, who with Spock, tried again to forge ties with the Federation, but was assassinated by a coalition of _Starfleet_ and _Klingon_ conspirators—who knew they could work together so well?” Her dry humour touches something deep inside of Michael; her brother certainly seemed to have made a name for himself in the Guide’s reality. “Or Gorkon’s daughter, Chancellor Azetbur, who worked to continue her father’s legacy, brokered a peace treaty and managed to lead the Empire for almost two decades, before losing her life for her daring.

 

“Then there was Ambassador K’Ehleyr, one of the first Human-Klingon hybrids, who made it her life’s work to foster a lasting peace, and was brutally murdered for uncovering the truth about a conspiracy. Or Commander B’Elanna Torres, another hybrid … and chief engineer … who helped to bring the Federation starship _Voyager_ home across _70,000 light years_ , from the far reaches of the delta quadrant, in less than 25 years, after it had been flung across the galaxy by a very powerful being. And I haven’t told you yet of her daughter, Miral Torres Paris, three-quarters Human and one-quarter Klingon, hailed as the _Kuvah’Magh_ —the  _Messiah_ —for a faction of Klingons, who had left the Empire a couple of decades after the war, disgusted at their Great Houses’ inability to unite for long, and their people’s constant jockeying for power … for _honour_. They left, in part, because of their people’s disdain for peace and seeing it as _weakness_ to be destroyed and exploited at every opportunity … often to their _own_ detriment. They set out, following an ancient prophecy, that eventually led them to their Kuvah’Magh. Miral saved their lives before she was even born and proved to them that they needn’t _remain_ _pure_ to _remain Klingon!_ She proved that there was not only _“infinite diversity in infinite combinations”_ as the old Vulcan axiom went, but _infinite strength_ in those combinations as well.”

 

“And now, in _your_ Federation?” Philippa asks with desperate hope in her voice, her hand tightening painfully around Michael’s.

 

The Guide laughs again. “They are trusted, _honourable_ allies, for the most part, standing shoulder to shoulder with _my_ Federation against _invasion_ by the Romulans, _assimilation_ by the Borg Collective, who want nothing more than to turn every being in the _entire galaxy_ into their ideal of _perfection_ —soulless cybernetic automatons incapable of independent thought—and _domination_ by the Dominion from the gamma quadrant, fielding hordes of fanatic, genetically engineered warriors who believe that their shapeshifting _Founders_ are the only ones with the _right_ to dominate and rule over _all other species_ in the galaxy.

 

“The Klingons of my universe have come a long way, captain, but then again, so has _my_ _Federation_.” She pauses for a long moment, her gaze shrewd as she regards Philippa and Michael. “And I see what Tam means about your survival changing _your universe_ too much, Captain Georgiou, such that he and I will _never_ be born there—and _our_ _Klingons_ will _never_ come to pass.”

 

Again, Michael feels great sorrow and dread welling up in Philippa. The Guide smiles indulgently and a look passes between her and the Guardian.

 

“But I dare say, the Klingons _you_ will foster and bring into alliance with _your_ Federation, Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham, will be as glorious or more so than those who eventually allied with _my_ Federation. Don’t worry so much, my dears,” she says gently, as Michael feels that pervasive fear, which had wound its way around her love’s heart, loosen a little.

 

“What do you think the Klingons— _true Klingons_ —will do once your audacious actions, and those of your daring crew, are revealed?”

 

Philippa’s eyes widen and her lips pull into a tentative smile.

 

“When you return, watch carefully for that opportunity to bring them onside a lot sooner that we did in my universe, Captain Georgiou—both of you—you’ll know it when you see it. But always remember … they are _Klingons_.”

 

Philippa’s reply is simple, but heartfelt. “We will; I promise.”

 

“Good,” their Guide murmurs with a curious half-smile on her lips. In that moment, Michael thinks her smile is quite maternal as she regards Philippa—the way her foster mother Amanda had often looked at Michael and Spock when they were children.

 

“Well then, you must meet the people trapped here and ascertain, for yourselves, where they would like to spend the rest of their lives—in your Federation or in the City of Dreams that previous groups have prepared—some have already made their wishes known, while others have not or are unaware that a choice must be made. And _I_ must get back to my death,” the Guardian says in amusement, as living light pulses and ripples over his body.

 

Michael regards him in surprise; entranced by the Guide’s description of the relationship between her Federation and the Klingons, she’s almost _forgotten_ him.

 

“Your _minds_ are active and conscious while your dead bodies are being _consumed_ at each moment of your lives? How does that work?” she blurts out before she can sensor herself.

 

“I’d advise that you don’t even _try_ to figure that out, Ms Burnham; just accept and go with it, like your Captain Georgiou does,” the Guide chuckles. “I’ve known him and Gomtuu for over five thousand years, and I’ve come nowhere _close_ to understanding it!” Her lips twist into a wry smile and her blue eyes twinkle merrily as she gazes at them. “But then again, I’ve lived more than _ten thousand years_ in the space of the last _second_ of my life.”

 

_“What?”_

 

Michael’s involuntary shout startles even her; in just a short time, these two beings have challenged every notion she has ever had about time and space and existence. And she suddenly feels incredibly backward and inadequate. Philippa wraps her arms around her again, enveloping her in a blanket of warm comfort, wordlessly assuring her that she is anything but backward or inadequate; Lisa tucks herself in close on Michael’s other side.

 

“To save the ones I loved, I tried to cheat Time and destroy an enemy,” the Guide explains, her voice sorrowful now. “The only way was a one-way journey into my past—a suicide mission. It didn’t work _quite_ as I’d envisioned, and in that last moment, with my people again balanced on that point between death and life, a very young and powerful being that I’d helped to birth into existence, came to me—offered me another chance at life, if I would be his teacher. He did not want to be like the elders of his people.”

 

“Teach him what?” Philippa asks quietly.

 

“Love, compassion … what it is to be Human … what it is to be mortal …” She gazes out at the mycelial plane, to a small town with neat little shops, buildings and houses, that has suddenly appeared on the shore of the ocean—or perhaps Michael simply hasn’t _noticed_ it before. It is a quaint, lovely seaside village that wouldn’t be out of place in the old parts of San Francisco that she has visited on occasion.

 

The two children the Guide had arrived with are in an old-fashioned playground with a third child, a little dark-haired boy of about ten or eleven, and a large dog—or some kind of canid at least—under the watchful gaze of another being. She is a tall female figure with honey-gold hair rippling about two helical, dangerous-looking horns and a pair of large wings that wouldn’t look out of place on an eagle or some sort of raptor. The boy, his canid, his strange protector— _yes, definitely a protector_ , Michael realises—and the townspeople all glow with the ubiquitous mycelial energy. A pair of small Tardigrades pop into existence to join the children’s play.

 

“I agreed, provided he got my crew to safety.” The Guide’s soft voice is wistful now. “There was another youngling of their people who was born differently and also longed to not fall into the same traps as their elders. So now we travel time and space … walk the void between one universe and the next … peel back the layers of reality to peer beneath …

 

“I help them to perceive the constancy of stars from the perspective of mortal moment to mortal moment, instead of what their immortal elders see—a brief stellar existence illuminating the void of space for a few billion years. And to hopefully see that a single being, with a brief mortal life, is as _worthy of life_ as an immortal being. Whether or not I actually _teach_ them anything of much consequence—” she shrugged elegantly.

 

“You’ve taught us more than you can ever know, Aunt Kathy; more than we can ever thank you for,” a gentle voice behind them assures her and they turn to regard a beautiful blonde woman; the Guide’s face lights up with joy. The woman appears to be in her early twenties, but her blue eyes are _ancient_ —older even than Tam Elbrun’s.

 

 _“Amanda!”_ the Guide—her Aunt Kathy—shouts, moving swiftly to her with arms outstretched to gather her into a tight hug. “It’s so wonderful to see you, sweetheart,” she laughs, stepping back and regarding her critically. “Has it been very long?”

 

Amanda chuckles mischievously. “A few million years since I last saw _this_ you,” she teases, “and a couple of minutes since I last saw _another_ you. She is taking us to observe Quinton’s father pester Captain Picard and his crew—the time the Others made him mortal and dropped him off on the _Enterprise_ for our poor _Capitaine_ to mind. She feels it will give us perspective on our own instances of living like mortals.”

 

“You’re _Starfleet_ ,” Philippa breathes studying the Guide.

 

This Amanda laughs again. “I see my Aunt Kathy is being modest again, Captain Georgiou,” she says as her godmother swats her arm playfully. “Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham, may I introduce Admiral Kathryn Janeway, late of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets, and the famous captain of the equally famous Federation starship, _Voyager_.”

 

#

 


	29. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being away so long - life's been difficult, and I've been trying to focus on one of my other works in progress when I get blocked. Enjoy this chapter; it and the next one were rather emotional to write. I'll post the next one hopefully later tonight or tomorrow.

Hours later, Farzaneh awoke with Katrina spooned in her arms. She lay listening to her friend’s soft breathing and reflecting on the entire— _extraordinary_ —day, especially the revelations about Lorca’s dark mirror of a universe.

 

_“You keep what you kill.”_

 

Farzaneh shuddered again at the ruthless, cold-bloodedness of it. Finding out that, in another universe, she was _Philippa’s_ empress wasn’t so strange—after she’d gotten past the initial shock of it—being known as the _Imperial Poisoner_ was far more shocking to her. And her relationship with her own Philippa had always been … _complicated_.

 

When she’d first met them on _Excalibur_ all those years ago, her immediate closeness and _kinship_ to Philippa and Katrina—not to mention helping them with their mission—had been exciting for the girl in her, the one who had grown up in a sea of brothers and male cousins. She’d only had four female cousins close to her age and had only been close to Sanara before life had taken them in separate directions in their late teens. She had joined Starfleet to slake that thirst for science … for _knowledge_ , which had overcome even her crippling shyness and inhibitions, while Sanara had gone on to become a celebrated artist, renowned for her combination of dance, kinetic sculptures and holographic sensoria that made her performance art pieces the toast of the Federation. Even more surprising had been her foray into politics to become an influential politician, and eventually the Federation President, of all things.

 

But Farzaneh’s shyness had made it difficult for her to make friends growing up, so schoolmates and teammates, in her various extracurricular activities, remained distant acquaintances at best. Both Katrina and Philippa, in their own way, had taught Farzaneh to move out of her comfort zone and to embrace life … and _living!_ They’d smashed through her walls in ways that no one—not even Owen—had thought to approach her, pulled her in and welcomed her to their friendship like no other since she and Sanara were little girls. And in those first heady months, they had taught her that even when she felt weakest and most afraid, she could still be strong and capable.

 

Katrina’s frankness about expressing needs and wants, and her no-nonsense approach to sex and relationships, had helped Farzaneh to move past her innate introversion and given her the courage not only to assert herself in pursuit of her ambitions, beyond being a science officer and Owen Paris’ wife, but also to take the next step with Owen and have the children she’d longed for. And when he had proved _false_ , Kat had supported her as she walked away from him and the shambles of their marriage; forced her to again move beyond those walls she’d cocooned herself in. She should have recognised long before that her marriage was over—no, if she was to be honest with herself, she’d known it was over for many years, but had allowed herself to be dragged along by inertia and fear. Fear of putting _Farzaneh_ out there, without the comfortable mask of _Owen Paris’ wife_ to hide behind. And it had taken two therapists and Katrina a few years to help her unpack that one.

 

Philippa, on the other hand, had taught her to play and dance and sing out loud and dream … and _drink!_ Well, Kat had also taught her a lot about alcohol, but Starfleet’s _Wild Child Pippa Khan_ had definitely been an eye-opener, and her antics had set off _all_ of Farzaneh’s protective alarms within days of her arrival on _Excalibur_. But Pippa had proven in very short order that she didn’t need her _protection_ , at least not in any capacity Farzaneh had thought to provide; in fact, she had proved to be a pillar of strength that Farzaneh could lean on over the years.

 

And it didn’t surprise her, in the least, that _Emperor Philippa_ had started life as an assassin. Although Louis-Georges and Katrina were extremely circumspect and had never breathed a word regarding Philippa’s years of work for Fleet Intelligence—and probably Section 31—Farzaneh wasn’t a fool, and she could well imagine _her Philippa_ in such a role, all too easily, in service of the Federation.

 

But, by the time Farzaneh had truly understood what Philippa had needed from her, it was _far_ too late. It had probably been too late from the moment they’d met; Farzaneh had been married to Owen— _Excalibur’s_ lead pilot, and later, first officer—for over eighteen months by the time Kat and Pippa had first arrived on board. And Philippa was never anything but _honourable_.

 

However, the night she’d nearly lost Augin to an outbreak of Kantare Haemorrhagic Virus was the night that Owen had arrived at the hospital to find Philippa asleep in bed with her, holding her after an emotional evening when her baby boy’s heart had stopped and he’d had to be confined to a life support unit. They had been in much the same position as she and Kat were in now—except she’d been the little spoon then, accepting Philippa’s strength and protection and comfort through her blood-soaked nightmares.

 

#

 

 _“Owen …_ please _… calm down—you know it isn’t like_ that _,” Philippa said, the frustration in her quiet voice penetrating Farzaneh’s sleep-fogged mind as she struggled to wake up. “Zana’s had an emotionally exhausting night—she was distraught—”_

 

 _“And I bet you made sure you were right there to_ comfort  _her, weren’t you!” he snarled. “You think I don’t know why you’re always hanging around? Always pushing yourself into places and_ _things where you didn’t belong all these_ fucking years _? You_ think  _I don’t know that_ _you’ve been_ in love with my wife  _since the_ day  _you met her?”_

_Farzaneh’s_ _involuntary gasp was almost lost in the volume of his accusations. But Philippa, ever attuned to her, met her gaze with such pain in her dark eyes, and yet above it all, so much_ love  _that it shocked Farzaneh._

 

 _“You’re pathetic!” Owen raged. “No doubt you were the one who pushed her into filing those_ fucking  _divorce papers.”_

 

 _Philippa’s gaze didn’t waver from Farzaneh’s. “No,_ you  _did that all by yourself, Owen,” she replied quietly. “Will you be all right, Zana?”_

 

 _Farzaneh found that she could not speak or even remember how to breathe. Philippa’s eyes narrowed as they shifted to Owen again, gaining an imperceptible hardness as her lips thinned, and Farzaneh understood, at once, that it was no longer her friend Pippa standing before her, or even the formidable Captain Georgiou. No, this was the very dangerous_ Philippa Khan Xiu Ying _looking out the windows of her friend’s eyes, and Farzaneh wanted nothing more than to run to her for protection … to hide behind her slight form and let her take care of_ all _her problems. But, if she did that—if she allowed herself to_ use  _Philippa’s honest love in that way—she knew that she would never_ stop using her _, and that she would never stand on her own two feet again._

_Philippa deserved someone who returned her love in equal measure as she gave it, and in that moment, Farzaneh recognised_ she _was not that person. She loved Philippa dearly, but she wasn’t_ in love  _with her. Perhaps after she’d resolved this mess with Owen once and for all, finalised the divorce, and figured out what her next steps should be—perhaps then she could contemplate exploring something more with her friend._

 

_“I’ll be fine, Philippa,” she husked around the painful knot in her throat. “Thank you.”_

 

 _Philippa nodded; a small, gentle smile graced her lips, and with an almost imperceptible shift in her gaze, she was Pippa again. “Call me if you need_ anything  _at all, Zana. I’ll be at home on Langkawi or at Katrina’s until_ Shenzhou  _is ship-shape again.”_

 

_“I will,” she said, rising and walking over to envelope her friend in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she repeated, kissing her cheek as she let her go. Philippa returned her kiss; there was sadness—and perhaps understanding—in her dark, fathomless eyes before she turned and left._

_As the door closed, Farzaneh returned her gaze to the man she’d married nearly twenty years ago, automatically stiffening her spine._

_“Augin’s room is through those doors, if you would like to visit with him,” she said, gesturing to the double doors connecting the rooms. “He had to be placed in a life support unit this evening in order to stabilise his cardiac functions.”_

_He nodded and started towards the doors. “We’ll talk when I get back,” he threw over his shoulder._

_“No, we won’t,” Farzaneh replied and he stumbled to a stop, turning to face her in shock. “The time for talking was over a long time ago, Owen. After tonight, I have nothing left to say to you, except_ ‘sign the fucking divorce papers and then go back to your new family!’  _If you need a place to stay, San Francisco has plenty of hotels—or you can speak to Hospital Administration about getting a room in this section; one near Thomas’ room should be vacant.”_

_He stood stunned for a long moment, then the familiar mulishness settled in his blue eyes again. “You’re still_ my wife _, Farzaneh.”_

_She laughed bitterly. “I haven’t been your_ wife  _for over five years—or perhaps even longer—so, cut the_ bullshit  _and just get out.”_

_“Farzaneh—” his voice was low and pained now._

_“Why are you acting like this now, Owen?” she asked, anger rising quickly on the heels of frustration._

_“For Christ’s sake!” he exploded. “Our son is in the next room fighting for his life!”_

_“Well, congratulations on_ finally  _realising that! But I’ve been_ well aware  _of Augin’s condition for over a week! In fact, I sent you a communique_ nine days  _ago apprising you of that fact!”_

_“I was on patrol—”_

_“Don’t … just don’t,” she said tiredly, sitting back down on the edge of her bed and dropping her head into her hands. “I know that you think I’m a rather_ stupid fool _, and perhaps I’ve given you reason to think it, but really, I’m not.”_

_She met his gaze._

_“I_ know  _that you were at Sirius IX, Owen. You weren’t at Andoria or Vulcan, and in fact, you were quite outside the sphere of space the_ Victory  _was_ supposed  _to be patrolling. You were only_ 8.6 light years from Earth  _when my first message reached you—at warp 9, you could have returned here in_ four days _. And Starfleet probably would not have objected to warp 11 or warp 12, given the circumstances; they certainly didn’t object to Philippa using warp 10 on the last leg of her journey home, with a half-crippled ship, when she heard that her_ godson  _was in the hospital fighting for his_ life _. So, don’t you_ ever  _dare speak to her like that again in my presence!”_

_His face darkened with fury, but she didn’t care. “Sirius IX, that’s where Lieutenant Commander Greaves and her children live, isn’t it?” she asked rhetorically. “And you didn’t even have to wait for someone to be diverted to take over your patrol; your old friend Captain Martins had already adjusted_ Aristotle’s  _patrol pattern to cover for your detour to Sirius.”_

_He paled significantly and grimaced as she threw her knowledge in his face._

_“Did you really think I wouldn’t check where_ Victory  _was when both my first and my_ second  _communique, twelve hours later, went unanswered? Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you told Katrina that I was just being_ “a hysterical mother, who was using our son’s illness to get you back?”  _You didn’t even_ bother  _to look up what Kantare Fever was, did you?” she said laughing bitterly._

_She wanted to cry as he stood there, his jaw working to spout another excuse, but unable to._

_“Don’t even try to lie—not when Katrina had to explain that your son had to have_ every drop of blood in his body replaced twice over _… when she had to get Admiral DeWalt to order your_ fucking ass  _back here! Tell me,” she said conversationally, marvelling at her own control when all she really wanted to do was blast him to oblivion with a ship-grade phaser. “Is that truly how you feel, or were you just parroting Greaves?”_

_Again, there was only dead silence._

_“Personally, I think it was Greaves,” she continued, gazing out the window to the constellation of city lights stretching to the horizon. “I think she’s just starting to realise that sooner, rather than later—and probably much sooner than she expects—you’re going to start playing those same old_ cliché  _games with her that you played with me. I have to give her credit, though; she figured it out in just five years, whereas, it took me the better part of twenty. Perhaps I am rather_ stupid  _after all. Well, never mind. Please, assure her I want nothing from you but your signature on the divorce decree. Now, go visit our youngest son, Owen, and if you can find it in yourself, perhaps visit our eldest as well—he’s just across the hall. But I’ve had as much of your presence as I can stand for one night.”_

#

 

Owen had stayed for five days after Augin had recovered and left without signing the divorce decree after another of their _discussions_ had devolved into snarling fight. A month later he’d died in a senseless altercation with a Nausican raiding group, whose leader had objected to Starfleet ships ordering him to _‘heave to’_ for inspection. The raiders had had a fighter carrier hidden in a nearby gas cloud; together the Nausican ships and their fighters had ripped _Victory_ and her sister ship, _Endeavour_ , to shreds; both had gone down with all hands.

 

 _“The dead always leave the guilty behind,”_ her grandmother would say when siblings, husband, children and grandchildren died and left her behind.

 

And Farzaneh had certainly felt guilty about the way things ended between her and Owen, and especially the way it ended between her children and their father; Thomas angry and bitter, while Augin had simply looked profoundly sad when she’d taken Kat’s advice and explained about Greaves and their half-siblings.

 

_“He didn’t love us anymore?”_

 

Three months out of the hospital and he’d still been pale and heartbreakingly weak, looking like an under-fed ten-year-old, although he was twelve.

 

 _“Oh, my darling, your father did love you_ very  _much; he loved you and your brother—please don’t doubt that.”_ But her words had sounded hollow even to her.

 

_“He didn’t love us enough to stay.”_

 

 _“He wasn’t in love with me anymore, Augin,”_ she’d whispered, unable to think of anything else. _“But he loved you boys very much.”_

 

Augin had nodded and shuffled slowly, painfully back to his bedroom.

 

 _“You don’t have to keep defending him, Mom.”_ Thomas’ anger burned hot and vicious in his voice. _“What he did and how he did it was unconscionable! Just because he died doesn’t make his actions any less_ dishonourable _.”_

 

 _“You knew about Lieutenant Commander Greaves,”_ she’d realised then and he nodded, looking exceedingly bitter. _“How?”_

 

 _“I chatted up one of his crew—practically every Human serving on_ Victory  _came to Earth when she was at Proxima for repairs … all except her_ captain _. It was such a_ stupid  _lie, Mom; overseeing ship repairs. That was such_ bullshit _, Mom, it was impossible_ not  _to know—”_

 

“What are you thinking about?”

 

#

 


	30. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those still enjoying the story, one more chapter before I turn in for the night.

Katrina’s sleepy voice brought her abruptly out of her reverie. Farzaneh studied her as Kat turned to face her, eyes less wild and haunted after a good night’s rest.

 

“How are you this morning?” she asked instead of answering.

 

“Good,” Katrina replied sitting up and stretching. “I feel more like myself and less like I’m about to fly apart at the seams. Thank you.” She looked down at Farzaneh with a considering gaze, before lying down on her side facing her, arms folded beneath her head. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed that you didn’t answer my question. What had you thinking so hard, I could practically smell the smoke coming out your ears?” she chuckled.

 

Farzaneh sputtered a laugh. _Damnit!_ How was it that Katrina always seemed to catch her at the right moment to make her spew her drink or, in this case, choke on her own _spit!_ She retaliated by clobbering her friend with a pillow. After a few minutes of hilarity, they both sobered up enough for her to answer.

 

“I was thinking about the last time Pippa and Owen met,” she said quietly. “The night Augin nearly died—the night Owen came back from Sirius and found Pippa in bed holding me. I was thinking about his accusations … how incredibly guilty and sad she looked … and how incredibly _stupid_ I felt for not recognising it before … But _you_ had to have known, Kat.”

 

Katrina nodded, and Farzaneh thought, _Of course you did_.

 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she whispered.

 

“It wasn’t my place, Zana.”

 

“When has that ever stopped you before?” Farzaneh scoffed.

 

“When it is a matter of my oath?” she said tightly, “It _always_ stops me.” She rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. “It was complicated—I wasn’t just Philippa’s friend, I was her _counsellor_ , Farzaneh. And while you may have considered yourself the weakest and most fearful of us, my friend, believe me when I say that, in many ways, you’ve always been the _strongest_ of us. It is no coincidence, Zana, that of the three of us, only you were _strong_ enough and _brave_ enough to have children. And for the longest time, our _celebrated Captain Georgiou_ was in a devastatingly _vulnerable_ place emotionally. A place that Louis-Georges and I had _deliberately_ put her, _again and again_ , because there were few others who could do what she could.”

 

Claws wrapped around Farzaneh’s heart. “What do you mean, Katrina?” she husked around the formless dread threatening to strangle her.

 

Katrina turned her head to again look her in the eyes. “Why did _you_ never pursue her, Zana?” she whispered sadly. “After Owen exposed her feelings for you … after you were finally free of him, why did you never go after Philippa—give her a chance?”

 

Farzaneh was quiet for a long moment; she realised that if she said anything at all, it had to be the truth.

 

“Believe me, it was an incredible temptation to do just that,” she replied at last. “That night, I wanted to do nothing more than run to her … grab hold of her … grab hold of the love she offered so freely and never let her go. I knew she would take care of everything—take care of me and my boys … get rid of Owen, but make sure he lived up to his responsibilities. In those few moments, I knew she would take care of it _all_ because she _loved_ me—and I knew it was _wrong_ to take advantage of that. But I nearly did it anyway, Kat,” she confessed hoarsely, as Katrina manoeuvred herself closer and put her arms around her. “I was so tired that night, and so low … so lonely—and so _fucking_ scared shitless! She looked at me with such _love_ , and I thought; _why shouldn’t I have that?_ ”

 

“What stopped you?”

 

“She looked at me with such love,” Farzaneh repeated softly, “and there was such _incredible_ _honesty_ in it, Katrina, that I could barely breathe. But I knew that I wasn’t _in love_ with her—I love her dearly, but not the way she wanted me to … _needed_ me to—and Philippa _deserves_ someone like Michael, who is _honestly_ in love with her … who would worship her and return her love in full measure. Not someone who was just out to _use_ her to take care of her messes. That night, I also recognised that—somewhere along the line—I’d developed a great talent for _dependence_ , Kat, and if I started to _use_ her like that, I wouldn’t stop and I’d never stand on my own feet again. I was nearly _fifty_ years old … far too old to be having such an epiphany, and my life was such a mess. I just couldn’t bear to use her like that—”

 

“So, you let her walk away,” Katrina murmured.

 

“It was the only thing I could think to do.”

 

Katrina barked a laugh and Farzaneh pulled away, annoyed that she would laugh at her after she had bared her soul. Katrina tightened her grip and pulled her in close again.

 

“You’re both such _damned idiots_ ,” she chuckled, pressing a kiss to Farzaneh’s temple. “While you were intent on being so damned noble, Zana, did you _ever_ think about how it looked to Pippa?”

 

“What do you mean?” Farzaneh asked in honest confusion.

 

“You pulled away from her after that night, Zana,” Katrina said quietly. She was silent for a few moments; Farzaneh could see the turmoil in her eyes as she spoke again, definitely skirting the tenets of her oath. “How would you have felt if, after your deepest secret had been laid bare to the person you loved, that person turned away from you … distanced herself from you?”

 

_“Oh God.”_

 

A chill stole over Farzaneh’s skin despite the warmth of her quarters; she sat up and wrapped her arms about her knees.

 

“I didn’t want to run to her—to both of you—with every little problem … I didn’t want intrude in her life more than I already had. But I made sure that we talked regularly.”

 

“Yes, you still talked, but it was largely superficial and, for a long time, you wouldn’t accept any help from her,” Katrina replied gently. “Such a change, in a previously close relationship between friends, might be interpreted by someone, in an emotionally vulnerable position, as their friend distancing themselves because they were embarrassed or angry to have those feelings imposed on them—or worse, _disgusted_.”

 

 _“No—”_ Farzaneh choked. “I—I _never_ meant to make Philippa feel that way, Katrina. Please believe me; that was the _last_ thing I intended.”

 

“I know,” Katrina replied, sitting up and moving closer to her so that they were side by side. She put her arms around Farzaneh again and after a moment, she relaxed into Kat’s embrace. “And believe me, I don’t want you to think what you did was wrong, because it wasn’t. You did the _right_ thing at the time—what you _needed_ to do for you and your boys, and for Philippa—don’t you ever doubt that, love. I only wish that you and Pippa had just _talked_ to each other.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Katrina kissed her temple again and gave her another gentle squeeze. “Hey, Philippa eventually understood—it was never about her, but about you finally stepping out on your own … on _your_ own terms, Zana.”

 

Farzaneh couldn’t help but exhale the relief she felt. “Thank you for helping her to understand that,” she said, allowing herself to melt further into her friend’s comforting embrace. “And I’m really sorry that I hurt her … that I put her through that.”

 

Katrina chuckled. “Actually, it was our dear _Ambassador_ Georgiou, who finally yelled at her, _‘pull your pretty head out of your equally pretty ass, Philippa, and look at things from Farzaneh’s perspective!’_ ”

 

Farzaneh pulled away and gaped at her in disbelief; Katrina laughed again.

 

“You know _our_ Pippa; sometimes Christos is the only one of us who can make her see sense, when even Louis-Georges can’t. I think it is part of the reason she’s stayed such good friends with him. He told her that you needed to rise and fall because of your own decisions … your own actions—especially after coming out of such an emotionally destructive relationship that your marriage had become—and that he was looking forward to seeing how high you would rise.

 

“He made her understand that the last thing _you_ needed was our _‘hyper-capable Captain Georgiou’_ riding to your rescue, because you were apt to pull back into your shell again and we would never see all those great things that we all knew Captain Farzaneh Mirzakhani Paris was truly _capable_ of achieving.”

 

Farzaneh fought the urge to duck her head and cursed her ready blush response that heated her cheeks at the compliment—even received second-hand so many years later.

 

“He always was a silver-tongued devil,” she said gruffly.

 

Katrina laughed again. “Well he is a diplomat; it rather comes with the territory. Anyway, I spoke to him yesterday, when we authorized Captain T’Rana of the _Cochrane_ to engage the highest warp factor her ship could manage in order to get to Earth as soon as possible. Christos should be here in four days with Lyrixxhandra Troi, Matriarch of the Fifth House, and Ilsezhiira Elbrun, Daughter of the First House and the Cynveld ambassador. They’d already been underway, to apply for Federation membership, for over two weeks before Philippa made her foray into Klingon space.”

 

“Well, that is good news,” Farzaneh said quietly, acutely aware of her friend’s suddenly pensive look. “Isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, it is,” she replied with a wry smile. “However, Christos has informed us that he can no longer serve as Federation Ambassador to Betazed—or more properly, Cyndriel.”

 

 _“Why?”_ Farzaneh was shocked; Christos Georgiou was one of their most experienced diplomats. “What _possible_ reason could the government or the Federation Diplomatic Affairs Office have for his removal?”

 

“None, Zana,” Katrina said smugly, looking very much like a cat that had gotten into the best cream. “But apparently, _he_ considers it unwise to continue as ambassador to a world when he intends to marry one of their most prominent citizens as soon as it’s practical to do so! Admiral Suzuki is inclined to agree with him.”

 

“Christos is marrying a Cynveld woman?”

 

Kat chortled. “Not just any Cynveld woman, but Matriarch Lyrixxhandra Troi herself! And she is coming to claim him directly from _his matriarch_.”

 

“His matriarch? _Philippa_?” Katrina nodded with a wide grin. “But they’ve been divorced for fifteen years!”

 

“And she still carries his last name—or rather in Troi’s eyes, he still carries hers—”

 

“I don’t understand,” Farzaneh said with no little amount of confusion.

 

“ _Matriarchy_ , Zana,” she said with that unholy teasing look. “When Christos marries her, he will become Christos _Troi_ of the Fifth House of Cyndriel. Regardless of whether _‘Georgiou’_ was his original last name, Philippa has first claim to it—and in Lyrixxandra’s eyes, he is still bound to _Philippa_ as long as he carries _her_ name. Then there is also the most telling fact that he still retains Philippa’s emergency power of attorney—”

 

“While she retains his,” Farzaneh murmured, comprehension dawning.

 

“According to Cynveld custom, they’re _still_ married, and in order for him to marry again, his severance from his previous matriarch must be complete,” Katrina explained. “The Matriarch Lyrixxandra Troi of the Fifth House of Cyndriel must formally claim him _properly_ by forcing the _Matriarch Philippa Georgiou_ of the Federation Starship _Discovery_ to relinquish all claims to him … and that can’t happen until Pippa wakes up.”

 

“Goodness,” Farzaneh chuckled. “Ain’t love grand!”

 

“Tell me about it!”

 

Farzaneh frowned as she voiced a thought that had been niggling her. “What did you mean about ordering the _Cochrane_ to make best speed to Earth?”

 

Katrina sobered immediately. “Less than half an hour before that, we received a gold channel communication from Matt Decker— _Constitution_ had just engaged two cloaked Klingon ships outside the Tellun System, a Federation protectorate with two humanoid pre-warp species, located in the Orion Sector.”

 

Farzaneh’s heart stopped and her breath caught in her throat, strangled by rising dread. _“Kat?”_

 

“They were about to execute a terror raid on two _pre-warp_ civilisations, Zana!” She was dry-eyed, but Farzaneh could hear the tears … the devastation in her voice, and drew her thin body into her embrace again. “ _Constitution’s_ Comm Witch caught their chatter when the less senior Klingon captain objected to the _dishonour_ of striking targets that were _too primitive_ to give them a good fight. Thank _God_ , Decker showed them the error of their ways with extreme prejudice! Both were destroyed in short order, with Decker pulling Pippa’s favourite _Broken Wing Birdie_ ploy to suck them in close—and as a result, he’s netted us an almost intact Klingon Bird of Prey, complete with cloaking and power systems for you eggheads to study—”

 

“Are you serious, Katrina?”

 

Her friend gave a soft laugh. “Louis-Georges diverted a couple of Connies—from collier escort duty—to take possession of the Klingon ship and tow it back here at best speed, and I’ve dispatched more patrol vessels to cover the area, as well as formally requested the Vulcan, Andorian, Denevan and Coridan Home Fleets’ support to help cover wider patrol areas toward the Klingon front in order to free up more of our ships. I’ll probably catch hell from the Admiralty today, but they’ve all agreed—even the Denobulans and Deltans have agreed to send a portion of their Fleets forward—so those _Armchair Assholes_ can’t back out without insulting core members and looking like idiots.”

 

“Thank you,” Farzaneh husked pulling her closer; Katrina and her allies in the Admiralty had been arguing over requesting help from the Home Fleets for _months_. The opposition had been worried about the _optics_ and that it would send a message that Starfleet couldn’t handle the Klingons. “And thank whatever gods or divine beings are out there that _Constitution_ was within range and caught their chatter!”

 

“It’s worse than that, Zana,” she husked, and dread tightened about Farzaneh’s heart again. “Those two ships had been part of a raiding fleet tasked with striking at core Federation systems—Deneva, Coridan, Pollux and Valakis—”

 

“Some of our most populous star systems.”

 

“Yeah, and the only reason they aborted was because of Philippa’s devastation of one of their major shipyards and her Dolittle Raid on Qo’noS, which resulted in the subsequent call to draw back _all ships_ to protect their homeworld, major colonies and installations. Only those two captains disagreed with Chancellor Kol and their leadership, but that’s why the lead captain decided to go after such an unprotected … _soft_ target like Tellun.”

 

“Thank you, Philippa!”

 

“Indeed,” Katrina replied and silence reigned for a few moments as both contemplated the devastation that fleet—or even those two ships—could have wrought. “Anyway, there was another bit of good news from Decker,” she said with a wry smile as Farzaneh regarded her expectantly. “One I think you, _especially_ , will appreciate—apparently there was a rather _unexpected_ effect when the Klingon ship’s disrupters destroyed the tricobalt devices, which is why they were able to capture it virtually intact. According to Decker’s science officer and his chief engineer, each time a disrupter bolt destroyed a tricobalt device, it set off a burst of localised Berathol radiation, which sucked the ship’s energy into subspace—and the effect was exponential and cumulative, so that the more devices they destroyed—”

 

“The greater and faster the energy drain!” Farzaneh finished, laughing with disbelief. “They drained their _own_ _fucking_ core! With an effect like that, everything within range—even _biological systems_ —would be drained of all energy!” she said with savage satisfaction.

 

“Yep!”

 

“Poor bastards.”

 

Any further discussion was cut off by her door’s chime; before she had the wherewithal to get out of bed, it came again with a palpable sense of urgency. She met Katrina’s gaze and moved quickly to pull her robe on over her pyjamas; Katrina had already shucked her sleep shirt and donned her tank top, before hauling on her uniform pants.

 

Farzaneh hurried out of her bedroom to the main part of her quarters calling “come in” as the chime came a third time.

 

A visibly trembling Cadet Tilly rushed in ahead of Commander Landry and Lieutenant Bryce.

 

“They’re coming to arrest me!” she blurted, looking for all the world like she was getting ready to vomit all over Farzaneh’s floor.

 

“Who is coming to arrest you, Cadet Tilly?” Katrina asked as she came out of the bedroom pulling on her uniform jacket.

 

 _“Admiral Cornwell?”_ the girl squeaked, masses of unruly red curls whipping back and forth as she looked from Katrina to Farzaneh and back again, and then blushed beet-red as she leapt to the obvious— _completely wrong_ —conclusion. Katrina grinned, an unholy look gleaming in her eyes, and Farzaneh suppressed a groan; knowing Kat, she was going to play this for all it was worth, embarrass the hell out of her, and tease her about it for _years_ to come.

 

Sure enough, her friend reached out and pulled her by her robe’s lapels into a hard, deep kiss. “Do we have time for breakfast, darling?” she asked, theatrically waggling her eyebrows at a dazed Farzaneh.

 

“I hate you.”

 

Katrina only laughed, while Landry and Bryce ineffectually hid their sniggers. Tilly, however, stared with unabashed awe.

 

“Wow! And here I thought Michael and Captain Georgiou kissing was hot!” she babbled and Farzaneh could only join the hilarity.

 

“What is this about you being arrested cadet?” Farzaneh asked, bringing her laughter under control and conversation back on track.

 

Tilly paled, as if all colour from her face had flowed down a proverbial drain. “They’ve sent a-a … some kind of _order_!”

 

“A formal voluntary custodial order, ma’am,” Landry explained, rubbing the almost hyperventilating girl’s back. “Not an arrest order—not yet. They want Cadet Tilly ready for pick-up at the station at 10:00 hours for preliminary questioning.”

 

That gave them just over four hours to get their ducks in a row and make sure no one ran roughshod over an innocent girl. At least they were being _polite_ this time.

 

“Have you contacted Coglin?” Katrina asked, concern lacing her voice now as she moved towards Farzaneh’s console.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Bryce replied. “The order came through his office. He tried to contact you immediately, but there’s a _Do Not Disturb_ order on your line until 07:00.”

 

_“What!”_

 

Farzaneh winced. “That’s my fault, Kat,” she said and her friend turned her sharp, angry gaze on her. “You _needed_ sleep; so, while you were in the shower last night, I asked Louis-Georges to block your line for a few hours, unless the quadrant was about to blow up.”

 

Bryce and Landry chuckled softly. “It seems that Admiral Picard took it on himself block yours as well, Commodore Paris,” Landry said to Farzaneh’s shock.

 

“I’ll kill him!” she muttered sending Kat into hilarity once more.

 

“It’s why we came to your quarters in person, ma’am,” Bryce continued. “Burnham’s parents are on station demanding to see their daughter—and Ms Grayson is being rather … _vocal_.”

 

“And Ambassador Sarek?” Kat asked with a rueful smile as she entered her authorisations into the computer.

 

Bryce grinned at her. “Oh, he just stands back, looking all Vulcan and lets her do all the heavy lifting, ma’am. Admiral Morgenstern looked more than a bit terrorised when he ordered me to wake Commodore Paris up to lift her DND order and deal with Ms Grayson.”

 

“Then I’d better go get dressed,” Farzaneh said, heading back to her bedroom. “Kat, get Coglin on the line and then we’ll deal with Burnham’s parents.”

 

“Ah, Commodore Paris—there’s another issue, ma’am,” Landry said in a distinctly hesitant voice; Farzaneh turned to face her, dreading what fresh hell that trepidation portended. “Ma’am, your eldest son called together with Mr. Coglin—Cadet Paris and a number of cadets were arrested last night by Fleet Security on suspicion of colluding with the enemy.”

 

 _“What?”_ Both Farzaneh’s and Katrina’s shocked cries made their junior officers flinch visibly.

 

“Don’t worry ma’am.” Bryce hastened to explain. “Your son Thomas had already secured the cadets’ release before he called, and the charges have all been dropped, as the cadets were merely communicating with the Klingon first officer on an Orion merchant ship—and the communication was done under the supervision one of the cadets’ instructors. The cadets have already gone back to the Academy … just in time to join the riot!” he said, shoulders shaking as he bit his bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud.

 

Farzaneh skewered him with her best gale-force glare, which was entirely ineffectual given that Katrina was laughing her head off and Tilly was giggling behind her hand.

 

Landry gave a soft cough in an effort to mask her laughter. “It’s not really a riot ma’am—more like a rather … _enthusiastic_ protest. The cadets had apparently planned a protest to voice their displeasure at the Admiralty’s treatment of Captain Georgiou and Cadet Tilly, and this just added a bit more fuel to the fire, so to speak.”

 

“It’s being carried on all the Federation news channels!” Tilly blurted out with obvious awe. “Your son Augin does a _great_ interview, from what little we saw before we came to get you. Is he dating anyone?” she asked guilelessly.

 

 _“Oh, fucking hell!”_ she swore and they all dissolved into helpless laughter again. She stared resolutely at the carpet; if she looked at them, she was going to laugh and she needed to project the image of the _“upset parent”_ right now. “Katrina, get _both_ my sons on the line while I go change.”

 

She hurried back into her bedroom and leaned against the wall as she waited for the door to close, before collapsing into helpless giggles smothered behind her hands.

 

#

 


End file.
